


Post Tenebras Lux

by osunism



Series: The Warmth of Your Doorway [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Break Up, F/M, Fanart, Interracial Relationship, Now Includes ART!, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-15
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-23 02:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3751876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"After darkness [I hope for] light."</p><p>Hadiza Trevelyan sees the fissures in Samson’s soul and the spirit-healer in her aches to mend them, so she gives him a chance to reclaim what he lost when he chose to side with Corypheus. This does not go over well with Commander Cullen, who sees only the shattered remains of a man he once respected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So if you're here, you've probably seen this fic [floating around](https://giwatafiya.tumblr.com/post/116032982812/post-tenebras-lux-masterpost) in the tags on Tumblr. If you are a crew member of the SS Sadiza (the name of this ship), then welcome. After much convincing, I finally decided to throw this up on AO3 where it belongs because the chapters were getting consistently longer. That said, if you are new, then I hope you stick around. This is a bit of a ride.

**(** Art by me **)**

 

              “You’re _sparing_ him?” Cullen demanded, “After all he’s done? After…after what we witnessed? You are choosing to allow him to live?” He paced, clearly livid, racked by some unseen memory that triggered a hatred and fury Hadiza had never seen in him. It was just the two of them in his office, and Hadiza regarded him calmly, waited for him to stop pacing, and sighed.

            “Why, Hadiza?” He asked, infuriated. Hadiza tilted her head.

            “Everyone deserves a second chance, Cullen,” she said calmly, “you said so yourself that Samson was a good man, once. Perhaps over time he can be again.” Cullen opened his mouth then closed it.

            “That was before we learned he was complicit in his crimes! That was before we learned that he did not regret a single thing! Maker! All those good men and women in the Order will have died for nothing if we suffer him to live.” Cullen paced again, a snarl on his scarred lip. Hadiza tracked his movements with the quiet patience of one who had long since learned its merit. Cullen was ambivalent about his views on mages, despite having argued with her over her decision to side with them during their initial attempt to close the Breach. He was ambivalent about his views on the Chantry, yet still clung to his faith, though he was not so blind as to accept that she was the Herald of Andraste.

            He was absolutely certain that Samson deserved to die.

            “Cullen, if it were you, if all that you served and believed in had cast you out for a petty mistake…and you were forced to beg and scrape for years after, would you not seek hope and solace wherever you could?” Hadiza asked him. She did not flinch when Cullen’s heated gaze turned on her, but she could see his throat working, could hear him turning over the words in his mind, considering them.

            “I suppose, but no amount of desperation excuses the depravities placed upon the Order. I simply cannot abide it. My sympathy extends to the life of the Tranquil that was needlessly taken to protect that man. The man I once knew is no more.”

            Hadiza shut her eyes. So it would be thus. This is where he would draw the line. So be it.

            “I won’t fight you on this, Cullen,” she murmured, “my decision and judgment stand.” She turned to leave, and he watched her go, but not before she looked over her shoulder to bathe him in a acidic stare.

            “You mentioned not being proud of the man you once were. Be grateful you were afforded a chance to reach a point where you can say that. Is Samson no less deserving?” She waited, but Cullen was silent, turning his head away to avoid her gaze. Hadiza left, then, strangely discontent with the outcome. How could Cullen not see the merit in sparing Samson’s life? Not only had Samson agreed to cooperate, but also he was resigned to his fate regardless. He knew he would die eventually, if not by the sword, then by the corruption in his blood. Hadiza felt a twinge of sympathy for the man. Templars were leashed to the Chantry through lyrium addiction, and there were no guarantees for older Templars whose minds were burned away by the continuous use. The Chantry did not bother to take care of Templars who left the Order.

            How not, when it was expected most would serve until they died?

            Hadiza reached her quarters, and by the time she pulled off her boots, and changed into her satin robe, she was exhausted. Tomorrow, she would take a visit to the dungeons to speak with Samson, she decided. If she were to stand by her word and afford him a chance to redeem himself, then he would need to hear it from her first.

            She wondered where this would leave her and Cullen, and dreading an answer, quickly slept.


	2. Chapter 2

            Breakfast was a lonely and quiet affair for Hadiza, and for once, she was at peace with it. Cullen usually ate with her to discuss the day’s work, and Hadiza would tell jokes to get him to crack a smile. She had been an unasked for gift to him, providing a spiritual needle and thread to mend the torn and tattered parts of his soul. He was doing better, but there were some things even a spirit healer of her level could not hope to heal. They quarreled, of course, like any other couple, and in truth, it did not seem they were a couple at all. Hadiza actively refused to make their relationship official, not with the conflict of interest it would cause both within the Inquisition and with the press of Orlais and Ferelden on either side of them.

            So they simply were, but it was obvious the Commander was smitten.

            Hadiza had just finished her breakfast when there was a knock at the door to her chambers.

            “Door’s open!” She called as she stood to go behind her changing screen and get into her clothes for the day. She heard the sound of leather and armor creaking, but the footsteps were too unsure to be Cullen’s.

            “Your Worship,” it was a runner from the tremor in her voice, “your presence is required in the dungeons.” Hadiza paused in buttoning up her blouse, brows furrowed. That was new; she never visited the dungeons on request. She locked people away and never thought about them again. She thought for a moment, as she looped the final button of her high-collared blouse, that perhaps it was time to change that.

            “Right.” She said, stepping from behind the screen and dismissively waving off the runner’s nervous salute, “I’m on my way.”

            It turned out that her presence was required because someone in the Inquisition decided Samson being held in prison was not enough. She arrived to a scene that for some reason boiled her blood. There were healers present, but too many guards, so she cleared her throat.

            “Are you lot going to move or must I summon lightning to get you out of my way?” She demanded harshly. The guards scrambled and Hadiza ignored the cacophony of “my apologies, Your Worship” as she pushed aside to see what required her presence, personally.

            Samson was a wreck.

            He lay on his back, barely conscious, his chest barely expanding to accommodate what were clearly pained breaths. The surgeon was stitching a cut on his lip, which was split badly. His nose was crooked from a recent break, but it had clearly been reset. The sight summoned the spirit healer within her, and all she saw were injuries, all she felt was the itch in her hands to do something. Cast a spell, mix a poultice, grab the needle and thread to begin mending torn flesh.

            And she was angry. So angry.

            “Who is responsible for this?” She asked in that dangerously quiet tone, the kind of calm that cloaked the approaching storm and all the violence it entailed. Her sterling eyes were steel—cold and unwelcoming, but demanding all answers and nothing other than the absolute truth.

            When the nervous silence stretched on for too long, Hadiza let her anger focus onto a point, honed to a razor’s edge. When she spoke, her voice was the crack of a whip, her displeasure palpable as the smell of ozone filled the air.

            “Who did this?!” She shouted and several of the guards jumped slightly as lightning crackled in her eyes.

            “If no one comes forward, then all present will be held accountable,” she continued, back to that dangerous quiet, “and my judgment will be swift. Come forward now, and you will be turned over to the Commander for disciplinary action. Remain silent, and face me instead.”

            Samson was just conscious enough to roll his eyes and search for her. He could barely make her out, standing tall and rigid, but he caught glimpses of her face as she turned her head, looking at all present in the room. Samson wanted to laugh. He didn’t even think Andraste could be that splendid in her anger. And all because a couple of guards decided justice hadn’t been properly meted out.

            Hadiza looked down at him, but the cloud of her anger never left her face.

            Maker’s breath her eyes were like the edge of a blade glinting in the sunlight, pale and cool and so at odds with the dark, burnished umber of her skin, the jet black of her hair. He loved the way her eyes didn’t match the rest of her. She looked away, back to the culprits. If he could speak he would have told her not to worry about it. A few broken ribs, a broken nose, a black eye, and a split lip weren’t the worst injuries he suffered in his lifetime.

            “It was I, Your Worship,” a young guard stepped forward, his face carved and hollow, likely from too little food and much exercise, “I…” Hadiza’s gaze was hard, and her expression pitiless. The boy inhaled, drew himself up a little taller.

            “My brother was killed,” he said, “at Haven.”

            “As were many others,” Hadiza countered, “but what you have done here undermines my judgment. Would you like the mantle of Inquisitor? Would you like to hold the lives, the political burden, and the moral burden of Thedas in your hands? Because this,” Hadiza pointed to Samson, “tells me you are ready to accept the consequences of all your actions, regardless of how small they are.”

            The boy looked sullenly at the floor, said nothing, and Hadiza sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

            “Go and get Commander Cullen, and report this incident. Until this is cleared up, have Samson moved to an isolated room under guard.” She placed her hands on her hips, turned her gaze back to Samson again, pensive and still angry, but no longer about to burn everyone in the room.

            The runner hesitated. Hadiza’s quicksilver eyes cut to him.

            “That means now!” She snapped and the runner scurried off. Samson listened to the footfalls fade, then coughed, groaning in pain.

            No one saw how Hadiza’s expression turned to a grimace at the sound.

 


	3. Chapter 3

            “You had him moved?” Cullen demanded, somewhat angry and Hadiza whirled on him.

            “Of course I did. Your guards beat him to a fucking pulp! Is that how the Inquisition treats its prisoners? Shall I begin using magic to torture the other prisoners who may have witnessed this? Are we tyrants, now, Commander?” Hadiza was raw in her anger and Cullen knew she had every right to be. The abuse was a blatant undermining of her authority—a spit in the face of her judgment decree—and since the guards fell under his purview, he knew it was his fault. He hadn’t heard about the incident until the runner came to report it, and in truth, he hadn’t felt the least bit sorry for it happening.

            And he never wagered the way it would make the Inquisition look, and for that, he was sorry.

            “Hadi— _Inquisitor_ ,” He said, “I only just found out when your messenger reported it. I…I’ll admit I do not share your sympathy for Samson, but I’d never condone abuse from any of the guards under my command. I’ll see to it that the offenders are punished at once and promptly reassigned.”

            Hadiza glared at him a moment, then relaxed. They were alone in his office, but for some reason the heat rolling from her was not the attractive kind. She truly was angry.

            “Hadiza,” he said quietly, “I am sorry. You must know that.”

            She looked away.

            “I try and do right by everyone, Cullen,” she said fiercely, “I do. I can’t please everyone but I really do believe everyone deserves a chance to prove themselves. Isn’t that why you joined the Inquisition?” Cullen’s cheeks burned. He had been such an ass about this Samson situation that he was beginning to look the hypocrite. Hadiza had executed no one as of yet, save the Duchess at the Winter Palace. Magister Alexius was working closely with Dagna in the Undercroft and in truth the man was…rather honorable beneath the Tevinter stigma that clung to him. Every prisoner Hadiza judged was given a chance to work for the Inquisition and turn their skills to the greater good, or imprisoned until she could think of some way to redeem them.

            No one was beyond saving to her, and he should have known that when he told her his story and she did not walk away from him.

            “Hadiza, I just…it’s complicated. I cannot in good conscience forgive him for what he willingly participated in. You’ve seen what red lyrium does to those who attempt to harness it.” Cullen paused, briefly considering, “I’ve seen it up close, watched it corrupt the mind, body, and soul of Knight-Commander Meredith. What’s left of her is still in the Gallows. _That_ is what Samson has done to the Order. That is what he sanctioned. You may rehabilitate him if you wish, and as your subordinate I defer to you. But as your…” He searched for the word, “…as your companion, I cannot. I’m sorry.”

            Hadiza’s brows went up. At least he was honest. But she still could not believe that he refused to see the bigger picture. He literally supported her wholeheartedly in all else, why not this? She took a deep breath, sighed heavily through her nose.

            “I understand,” she lied, “but it is no excuse to allow your guards to brutalize prisoners in our custody. The Inquisition— _our_ legacy—must not be that we were as cruel and frightening as the one prior. We stand for order and justice in all things, and that includes treating our prisoners as people, not punching bags.”

            Cullen’s face was hard. He understood. She was right; of course she was right. But of all the people she had chosen as her pet project for redemption, why Samson? Was it because he’d told her that Samson had been a good man once? The man was a lyrium addict and unapologetic about it, and an alcoholic. His redemption would be a chore.

            Cullen realized the poison that burned his blood was not all anger, but _jealousy_.

            “You are right,” he conceded with a firm nod, “and I have been unfair to you about all this. I should not let my personal qualms drive me to beleaguer you and cloud your judgment.” For some reason, Hadiza felt as if his words were passive-aggressive and she rankled at them, snorting.

            “You have not clouded my judgment, Commander,” she said wryly, pointedly using his title, “only your own. I shall continue my current course, and you will instruct your men that any abuse will not be tolerated, be it against a prisoner or otherwise. We all lost people at Haven and the Conclave, but the true culprit isn’t sitting beneath Skyhold.” She didn’t let him answer or acknowledge, she simply turned and left his office. Cullen fumed, fury and that…that _other_ poisonous emotion making his skin hot.

            It was only after he took a few deep breaths that he finally calmed down enough that his messengers and scouts weren’t in danger of being roared at.

* * *

 

            Samson liked his new cell. It was not the cot, or the fact that there was actually a tiny window that let a little light in, or even the fact that it was actually dryer than his previous confines.

            It was because the Inquisitor had given it to him.

            He’d seen her, during battle, on horseback, sitting a pretty saddle and barking orders. Seen Commander Cullen too, fighting by her side. The two made a pretty pair, and he hadn’t missed how Cullen had been hovering around, protecting the Inquisitor while she slung spells with all the elegance of a dancer. Samson had been in the thick of the fighting, but what glimpses he caught had been a sight.

            When it came time for her to pass judgment he kept his eyes downcast. Not out of respect, not even out of shame, but because he was tired. He was tired of it all. Everything he had done, in the twenty or more years he had served the Order, had turned to ash in Kirkwall. The Chantry, the place he had devoted his life to, had turned him out and slammed the doors. There was nothing for him and he found himself begging on the streets of Low Town for the entire ten years he languished there after his expulsion. Cullen had left the Order not soon after that apostate blew up the Chantry.

            Samson didn’t blame him, but that did not alleviate his contempt for the Commander. Somehow the man had managed to get by in life and come out on top. He survived the Fifth Blight, he survived the entire shitstorm that was Kirkwall, and now he was commanding the Inquisition’s armies and from the looks of it, he was fucking the Herald of Andraste.

            Where had he gone wrong?

            What had he done to deserve the amount of shit life had heaped on his shoulders?

            He didn’t dare look up at the Inquisitor, with her haughty features and gimlet eyes. Not unless she was ready to see the full weight of what burdens he bore.

            Breathing hurt; the surgeon had done what she could to mend his broken body, and the mage healers had alleviated the pain, but it was all very temporary. He spent his nights learning how to force himself to sleep after spending hours controlling his breathing. Then he would wake, in worse pain than before. While he had been afforded isolated and marginally better living arrangements, it earned him no compassion from his jailers. So, like all things, Samson endured it, waiting for whatever it was the Inquisitor planned for him.

            Those plans came in the form of a very peculiar dwarven girl named Dagna.


	4. Chapter 4

            Dagna, as it turned out, was surprisingly pleasant to be around. Of course, that was relative as Samson could no more stand her than the rest of the Inquisition, but she made it very hard to dislike her. He bore her prodding and ceaseless questions only because he’d given his word that he’d cooperate. He had nothing left to lose and from the looks of it, nothing to gain either.

            She’d been in the middle of interrogating him about his symptoms when the Inquisitor entered the undercroft. She was clad in a deep, midnight blue mage robe, with what looked to be elfroot embroidered on in soft green. He almost laughed. She was such a fucking mage it was a wonder how the Commander didn’t flinch every time she blinked.

            “Oh, good morning, Inquisitor,” Dagna laughed as if she weren’t just sticking her fingers in Samson’s mouth, checking for abnormalities, “we were just finishing up. You need something?” Hadiza looked somewhat refreshed, as if…Samson did let out a chuckle then, disguised as a cough. Hadiza looked like she was freshly fucked, skin all dewy and eyes too bright for this hour of the morning. So the Commander was putting in extra duties after all. How typical. Cullen got the girl of his dreams despite everything. The man had life handed to him on a silver fucking platter, and Samson got to be a damned experiment for a too-curious dwarf.

            He spat to his left, both in disgust and to get the taste of whatever had slicked Dagna’s fingers out of his mouth. His insides itched, and his palms were sweating. He hadn’t had some of the red shit since the Inquisition took him in, and his appetite was all over the place. He probably smelled like death warmed over too.

            And here was the Inquisitor, looking like a fucking queen, descending the staircase gracefully to come to Dagna’s side. The dwarf only came up to mid-thigh on her and Samson remembered how long Hadiza’s legs were. He’d knelt before the throne, watching her cross them as she thought over what to do with his worthless hide.

            “Not yet,” she replied to the dwarf, lifting her hand to smooth back an errant lock of hair. The wide sleeve of her robe fell to reveal her arm, which was bruised. Samson made a noise in his throat. He didn’t take Cullen for the rough type. The man couldn’t even get the word ‘brothel’ out of his mouth let alone manhandle a woman to ride.

            Maybe things had changed.

            “Inquisitor!” Dagna looked alarmed. Hadiza glanced at her arm, and then laughed. Samson let that sound wash over his mind. He felt dirty in her presence—he _was_ dirty in her presence. That laugh was too much for him. Did she laugh like that with the Commander? The man wasn’t known for his humor.

            “I had a training session with Aja yesterday. She’s convinced that the only way to get me to improve my shield arm is to beat it to uselessness, evidently.” Hadiza waved dismissively, rolling her eyes. Dagna blinked, somewhat relieved. Samson narrowed his eyes.

            “Yes, well, I hope you’ve got room in your pack. Samson may be a sourpuss but I’ve managed to wring a few master runes out of him for your convenience. You just say the word and I can slap it on anything you like.” Dagna beamed and Samson scowled, as if it weren’t bad enough they were using his body to create new magical items, now he had to be invisible as well?

            “I’m right fuckin’ here, dwarf,” he growled, “ain’t dead yet.”

            Hadiza finally took it upon herself to look at him. He was healing rather quickly, likely due to the residual red lyrium in his body, and some added healing from the mages she’d sent to his room, but he still hurt in every part of himself. The marrow of his bones felt scraped raw and his blood felt like sludge. And he was exhausted.

            “Are you alright?” Hadiza asked and he wanted to spit in her beautiful fucking face. Was he alright?! Certainly she wasn’t so clueless as all that to be asking such an inane question. Samson refused to believe the Inquisitor was that daft.

            “I mean, your injuries,” she amended, likely seeing the look in his bloodshot eyes, “I wanted to apologize to you for the treatment you suffered in the dungeon. While you are my prisoner, I would never condone such abuses.” Samson took a pained breath, and spat on the floor between them.

            “The lady is too kind,” he said cruelly, “to take pity on the poor, misguided prisoner. At least I know it’s not the Commander what prompted you to come down here.”

            There it was, that splendid anger, sterling eyes turning steely as the pupils shrank to points, making them even more startling. Samson wanted her to unleash that anger on him. He didn’t know why, but he wanted her to burn him away, end him right there. He had nothing left to live for, anyway. He had not lied when he knelt before her severe-looking throne. He had likely been the only one in the main hall who had been completely honest.

            Even Commander Cullen was a liar.

            “Do not mistake my common decency for pity.” She said coolly, the bite in her voice the only evidence of her anger, “I spared you because the Inquisition’s reputation shall not be one known for torturing and abusing those in our custody. You have not yet proved yourself worthy of much else.”

            Samson gave her a smile, his teeth ached.

            “So it wasn’t the Commander, after all,” he said, “glad it’s you running this operation and not him. He’d put anyone to the sword if he had his way. And there’d be not a mage within leagues of this fortress.”

            His words had the desired effect, even though Hadiza was a master at hiding it. There was a hesitant mood in the air, and something passed behind her quicksilver gaze. Samson wanted to gloat because he knew that look. He wore it often enough in his final days as a Templar.

            _Doubt_.

            She knew in some part of herself that he spoke truly. Cullen had yet to prove he was a friend to any mage, and Samson could surmise that she was considering that carefully. Good. He’d not be the only one with a restless mind in the night, not after all he’d been through only to wind up in a Maker-forsaken dungeon.

            Hadiza leaned down to murmur to Dagna and the dwarf nodded. As she ascended the steps, Samson only glanced after her once.

            “Tried to warn her,” Dagna muttered and returned to her table. Samson lay on his spare cot, and thought to himself that the he and the Commander were most assuredly overdue for a nice chat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cullen gets read for filth and dragged. Ayyyyy!

            The Commander visited him a week later. Samson could tell Cullen had been at war with himself whether or not to come, but it didn’t matter. Cullen was always stubborn; he couldn’t see the light at the end of the tunnel unless it was directly ahead, and Samson had long since given up trying to convince him to see the bigger picture of anything.

            So when the door to his cell opened and Cullen stood, tall and foreboding, darkening the doorway, Samson sucked his teeth, completely unsurprised.

            “Come to gloat, Commander?” He asked. “Or is there something you actually needed from me?”

            Cullen was less volatile, he noticed, but the white lines of tension around his mouth gave him away. The man always did have the patience of a fucking five year old. Samson couldn’t even bring himself to laugh at how little the man had changed beneath the surface. And he had the _audacity_ to stand on that dais and judge him, as if his own conscience were clean.

            “I have come for information,” he said harshly, shutting the door behind him, “and to warn you.”

            “Warn me of what? The coming doom?” Samson laughed. “A bit late for that, ain’t it?”

            Cullen’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t going to hit Samson, much as he would have liked to, but nor would he tolerate the man’s insolence and cavalier attitude toward the gravity of the situation. He should have convinced Hadiza to side with the Templars, should have been more forceful in his petition, but Hadiza had refused, choosing the mages over the Order. Had they gone to Therinfall Redoubt, Samson would not have become what he was.

            There might have been a chance to save and redeem him.

            “There are still Red Templar groups scattered throughout Thedas,” Cullen said after a while, “we need their locations.” Samson stared at Cullen, who hadn’t moved too far beyond the door. He sat on his cot, leaning against the wall, trying to figure out what the hell the man was on about. He needed locations? Why? To send Hadiza out to burn them away? Samson couldn’t argue that logic, but in truth, even he wasn’t sure exactly where all his former troops were. Not that Cullen needed to know that, but the lyrium—red or no—still fucked with one’s memory.

            “Yeah, well I can’t very well tell you without a fuckin’ map can I?” He demanded. Cullen’s eye twitched, and those white lines of tension appeared around his mouth again. Samson intended to take what little victories he could in his defeat. He’d not let this self-righteous prig badger him into submission. He was already beaten, there was no need for hostility.

            “Was there ever any honor in you at all?” Cullen demanded quietly. Samson stared at him, and he couldn’t believe the nerve. How far up one’s own ass did their head have to be to be this fucking self-righteous? Samson tipped his head forward, allowing the weak torchlight to capture the preternatural glaze of his eyes.

            “You keep using that word, Commander, as if your being in the Inquisition absolves you of your own sins” Samson said with a slight sneer, “The Herald of Andraste offering out cleansings, now? That part of her job when you’ve got her on her back? Never took you the type to shit where you eat.”

            Cullen lunged but stopped himself, reining in his composure hard, but wanting nothing more than to tear the man’s head from his shoulders. Samson grinned. Cullen was still an easy fucking mark. Samson hadn’t even known he was fucking the Inquisitor, but apparently he had is answer.

            “I acknowledge fully what I’ve done, Samson, but at least I was never willingly complicit in it.”

            It was Samson’s turn to lose his temper.

            “You can lie to yourself, Commander,” he snapped, “you can even lie to your pretty prophet, but don’t you dare stand there and tell that lie to me. Don’t you dare tell me you weren’t complicit. How many requests for the Rite of Tranquility crossed your desk before they even reached Meredith? How many fucking rape reports did you file away and never follow up with an investigation? How many mages suffered under that fucking tyrant bitch before the Champion had to come and thrash some good sense into you all? You were her second in command, Cullen. You knew, you saw, you _had_ to if the chain of command was being followed. You knew and you saw and you turned your fucking back on all of it. Don’t talk to me about complicity until you’ve acknowledged your own.”

            Cullen drew back as if struck. He might as well have been. Samson was snarling at him, but the words…the words were all truth. The memories rose up in his mind and he remembered, so many broken faces; men and women alike, who had the hope drained out of them. How many of those reports did he bother to look over? He’d been so filled with contempt for mages that he hadn’t even bothered to listen to them…or help them. Maker! But Samson wasn’t done with him yet.

            “And now you think because you’re fucking a pretty mage who happens to be your leader, that somehow absolves you of sin and guilt?” Samson raised his voice, spittle flying from his mouth as his anger swept him. He rode his anger, heady and exhilarating, the first true emotion he’d felt in weeks.

            “Did you tell her about Kirkwall, Cullen? Did you tell her had she been there she might have been one of the many mages whose suffering you ignored? Or did you gloss over it like the coward you are, hoping she’d hand-wave your past in favor of whatever mask you wear now? Andraste’s flaming sword I bet she can’t even cast a simple healing spell around you without you flinching.”

            Cullen lunged, and this time, his fist took Samson right in the jaw. He didn’t care about the stitches in the man’s lip, or his still-healing nose. He just wanted to hurt him. Samson deserved to suffer for what he’d done. He’d admitted his guilt, proud of the choice he’d made in corrupting the Red Templars, and all but saying he’d do it again. Cullen pulled back, but Samson was grinning through bloodied teeth.

            “You can’t even face it, can you?” He laughed, “Can’t even fathom that you are just like me, only you got the girl in the end.”

            Cullen’s face was red, and he turned to leave.

            “May your corruption be swift,” he spat, and slammed the door behind him, trying to ignore Samson’s mocking laughter.

            He didn’t look Hadiza in the eye for the remainder of the day.


	6. Chapter 6

            Hadiza had never been so happy to cross back into the Frostbacks, and ultimately back into Skyhold. It had become home to her, had become the point to which she fixed her very heart, and she couldn’t believe how much she missed its familiar, ancient walls when she was away. The Western Approach was nearly secured, save for the few Venatori still scattered about. For that mission, she had taken Dorian specifically, along with Iron Bull, Blackwall, and Aja. In Griffon Wing Keep, Knight-Captain Rylen assured her that everything was under control, and both the Gates of Andoral and Toth were secured.

            She’d been gone for two months.

            Still, two months was better than the six she’d spent traipsing about the Hinterlands like a damned fool.

            Argo, her dracolisk, seemed excited to be home as well, and she scratched the flexing spines along his long neck, smiling when he preened and chirped happily.

            “I know,” she spoke to the beast cheerily, “we’re home. I’m sure Master Dennett will have a fattened lamb or goat waiting for you.” As if in response to the promise of such delectable meats, the dracolisk let out a crooning screech, making Hadiza laugh, and her companions wince.

            “How the hell does she put up with that thing?” Blackwall wondered. Aja rode alongside him on a painted mare with a strong gait.

            “Same way she puts up with the rest of us, I’d imagine,” Aja mused, “although how she looks at it is beyond me. Andraste’s ass it’s hideous.”

            Hadiza shot the pair a dark look.

            “Don’t insult my steed, Aja. Argo can still outpace your mounts any day, and your own horse would flag long before Argo felt the first burn in his lungs.” Hadiza sniffed. Aja raised her brows.

            “He’s. Still. Ugly.” She said slowly and the companions laughed, save Hadiza, who patted her mount on the neck, cajoling it and telling him to ignore the teasing. Argo seemed indifferent to it all, still focused on the promise of food.

 

 

 

            Samson and Dagna were in the middle of another study when Hadiza walked in, still covered in dust from the long journey, but looking as cheerful as ever.

            “Inquisitor!” Dagna greeted, “I take it your journey was pretty successful. Did you test that new enchantment I crafted you?”

            “Yes!” Hadiza cried, seemingly ignoring Samson, who watched her from his prone position on the table, “It was magnificent. Completely increased the area of impact. Will have to work on making it last, however.” Hadiza turned in a slow circle, taking a deep breath. Samson studied her. She was wearing her riding gear, and must have gone to her room to strip out of some of her clothing but he noticed that she was…tall. Her legs were long and shapely in the leather pants, vanishing into the knee-high greaves and boots. Her body was a study of sinuous lines and curves, and her hair, although dusty and dry, was clearly a mass of curls and waves. She turned and he glimpsed her profile. Long lashes, cresting on a high cheekbone, her mouth, a full and sensuous thing, shaped for making a man weak in his knees.

            Maker, she was a sight for sore eyes if ever there was one.

            “What are you up to today?” Hadiza asked, coming to stand over his table. She was close enough to touch. If Samson lifted his hand he could squeeze the curve of her hip, maybe feel how warm she was through her breeches. He took a deep breath, turning his head away. She smelled like spring, summer, and a bit of sweat. Her natural musk was…heady. He liked it, and he could only imagine what she looked like after a bath, all satin-skinned, wet, and soft.

            Shit.

            “Well, Sourpuss is actually being cooperative today,” Dagna beamed, “managed to get some more samples. I still haven’t cracked how he’s resistant to red lyrium and he doesn’t seem to know either. My guess is it has something to do with Corypheus. He’s the only Templar that hasn’t turned into a red lyrium monster so it’s hard to say. His armor, however, that’s something else.”

            Hadiza looked down at him, meeting his eyes.

            “Your injuries seemed to have healed,” she said gently, and Samson was suspicious of her disposition, “I hope you’ve been…comfortable while I’ve been away. I haven’t received any distressing reports.” Samson couldn’t bring himself to hate her, not when her face was all soft and concerned like that, damn her gorgeous eyes. He sighed heavily through his nose.

            “I’m as well as I can be, Inquisitor,” was his only answer before he looked away. Hadiza hesitated, wondering what else there was to say.

            “You’ve not been too rough with him, I hope,” she said to Dagna, who waved her hand.

            “Oh he’s fiiiine. He doesn’t really respond to anything painful, but the procedures are all one hundred percent safe, both for myself and for him. Would you like to watch?”

            Samson balked, going rigid on the table. Was the dwarf serious? Hadiza let out a small laugh, clearly embarrassed.

            “I think I’ll manage without you having to do that. Just…keep working, I suppose. I need to see him when you’re done here, so send him to the war room.” Hadiza turned to leave after Dagna’s murmured acquiescence, and Samson watched her go, feeling something in his belly flutter to pitiful life.

            _Shit_.

 

 

            The war room was spacious, more spacious than he expected. He felt smaller when he passed through the large double doors, felt even smaller when the three advisors spared him one look, all mingled with pity, disgust, and indifference. Hadiza was there too, but her back was to him and she was bent over the war table, scribbling on parchment. When the door shut behind him, she looked up, glancing over her shoulder.

            “Oh good,” she said as if she were welcoming an old friend, “you’re here. Well, time to make good on your word, Samson.”

            Samson made his way toward the war table and glimpsed the true power of the Inquisition in miniature. Here was a map of all of Thedas, and what he assumed to be all of the missions accomplished by the group. It was both staggering and insulting. Staggering because there was no way such an organization could cover so much territory without considerable aid or bolstered numbers, and insulting because they considered him so little a threat that they trusted him to be privy to this information.

            “I take it you want me to give up the locations of the remaining Red Templars.” Samson said evenly, his eyes still on the map. Cullen crossed his arms, golden eyes turning hard, and it was all he could do to keep his lip from curling. His forced restraint gave Samson a sense of morbid satisfaction. Good. Let the coward be angry. The fact that he was standing next to the Commander’s woman didn’t serve to temper that satisfaction.

            “Yes, you mentioned you needed a map,” Cullen remarked in a half-growl, “and the Inquisitor said to wait until her return before we began. So begin.”

            Samson frowned, reached for one of the charcoal pieces, his hand brushing Hadiza’s by accident. She did not snatch her hand away but simply moved to give him space. Samson knew the locations, knew where his men were spread, but they were men no longer. Still, he had given his word, and his word was that he’d tell the Inquisition whatever they wanted to know.

            Samson began to mark the map in silence.

            No one spoke while he worked, no one so much as coughed. The entire time Samson was unreasonably aware of Hadiza next to him, who crossed her arms beneath her breasts to watch. As more X’s and accompanying circles appeared on the map, he heard her sharp intake of breath.

            “Andraste’s flaming sword,” he heard Cullen swear beneath his breath. Josephine put a hand to her mouth in quiet disbelief, and Leliana simply narrowed her eyes. Hadiza’s brows went up.

            Samson put down the charcoal, not bothering to wipe his hands. The markings showed a pattern in the Red Templar camps, most of which were in Orlais, but all of them encroach on the lower end of the Frostbacks.

            “Where were you planning on taking them?” Hadiza asked softly. Samson turned to look at her.

            “Before you came to the Wilds and stopped me? We were going to march on Ferelden.”

            Hadiza sucked in a breath. They’d broken most of Corypheus’ army before that, and Morrigan had drank from the Well of Sorrows. Hadiza was breathing deep. She let out a quiet swear.

            “Alright,” she said after regaining her composure, “so we can assume that most of the Templars are in the foothills of the Frostbacks by now, or scattered to the west.” She turned to Samson, studying him. Samson used this as an excuse to look upon her face. She was bathed, her hair combed and pulled back away from her face. She had fine-boned features, high cheekbones, full lips, a straight but rounded nose, and eyes that tilted at the corners like a cat’s. Maker but her eyes! They refused to match the rest of her; she was all dark skin and hair, but her eyes were like polished steel, pale and eerie, but expressive.

            “Do you know where Corypheus may have fled?” She asked him and he was mesmerized by the way her mouth shaped the words. She was nobility, so she chose her word with care, tasted each syllable before it left her mouth.

            “Can’t say I do,” he told her, “but if I were you, I wouldn’t waste time lookin’. Elder One can’t be found if he doesn’t wanna be.”

            “That’s the problem,” Cullen cut in, “we need to know where he is or where he might head. Surely he had some form of contingency plan should the attempt for the eluvian fail?” Samson cut his eyes to Cullen briefly.

            “That’s the thing,” he retorted, “he didn’t expect to fail. Your being there was a minor concern, but the fact that you beat him at his own game? Well, I can’t help you. He’s an ancient darkspawn magister, he probably knows where to hide that even Sister Nightingale won’t be able to look.”

            Leliana barely stirred at his address of her name.

            Hadiza sighed.

            “Well I guess we have to just hunt down the remaining Red Templars. Hopefully Corypheus is dumb enough to make a move soon. I want this foolishness over with.” She rubbed her temples, blinking those pretty eyes in a way that made her look petulant.

            “Alright Samson, you can go. I think…” She thought for a moment, “Commander can you provide him with a suitable escort?” Cullen blinked.

            “Back to his cell? Certainly.” He seemed to pleased with the prospect. Hadiza shook her head.

            “Not what I meant. I think Samson can at least be put to work here at Skyhold instead of wasting away in a cell. I meant an escort to shadow him while he’s free to roam the grounds.”

            Samson’s eyes went a little wide. Cullen’s face went ashen.

            “What? Inquisitor you can’t be serious. He’s…”

            “Our prisoner, I know,” Hadiza said, “but he’s been cooperative since we first brought him here. I don’t see the harm in letting him be put to work at the very least.”

            Samson didn’t like when folks spoke of him as if he weren’t standing right fucking there in the room.

            “I take it I don’t get a choice in the matter?” He mused. “I’m fine in my cell.”

            “I’m not fine with it.” Hadiza countered and he frowned at her rebuttal, “You can probably work in the stable for Master Dennett; he’s in need of another hand. Josephine, make the arrangements, and Cullen get me a suitable escort for him.”

            “Inquisitor, I must prote—“ Cullen began but Hadiza held up her hand.

            “How can we expect to rehabilitate someone if we lock them up all the time? Samson gave us his word he’d cooperate. Well fuck it, give him a job to do other than lay in a dark cell waiting for us to come wring him for information.”

            Samson suppressed a wolfish grin as Cullen silently fumed. Hadiza was in his corner it looked like, but what her intentions were he wasn’t entirely sure. She smiled at him, and it was a curious thing, a slight quirk to her mouth, as if she knew something he didn’t.

            “Samson, consider yourself conscripted to the Inquisition.” She said to him and Samson, damn it all, felt that…that _something_ shiver to life in his belly again.

            _You can’t be fucking serious_. He thought in disbelief. _Butterflies_?


	7. Chapter 7

            Samson knew what to expect when he was allowed outside of his cell, to roam the grounds, and breathe the free air. He knew that the people of Skyhold would see him with disdain, and knew without prompting, they would spit as he walked by. The Inquisitor may have declared Samson under her protection from physical harm, but humans were a finicky bunch, and they always found a way to circumvent authority.

            So he bore the angry looks, the disgusted noises, the spittle that followed him, and even the children who mocked him. He bore it because he knew himself, knew his own mind, and lived in his truth. He could hardly say the same for Cullen, who had bolted when faced with the fact that his lover may not have known the entire truth about him. Samson took small pleasure in that, because there was nothing he’d rather see than Cullen’s fall from grace, or at least a fall that made him realize that he and Samson were not much different.

            His first task was from Master Dennett, the crabby horsemaster from Ferelden. Surprisingly, the horsemaster was less acidic toward him than Samson anticipated.

            “You can start by mucking out the stables,” the older man said with clipped pragmatism, “and once you’re done you can oil down the saddles and bridles, and clean out the brushes.” Samson passed by the each stall, slightly alarmed when a dragon-looking creature hissed and trilled at him when he passed too close.

            “What the hell kind of stable…?” He muttered. Dennett looked back, snorted.

            “That’s Her Worship’s, mount, Argo. Dracolisk. She found him in the Approach, brought him back here. One thing I’ll say is this: working for the Inquisition definitely expands one’s…horizons.” Samson stared at the creature a while longer, marveling at it. Hadiza certainly had strange tastes. The stable was filled with fewer horses than he thought although there were a few sturdy, recognizable mounts, including the majestic Friesian he’d seen her riding into battle when she came for him. Samson recalled that with a strange sense of pleasure. She’d looked like some magical warrior queen, all bathed in light, left hand glowing with the Anchor, her staff raised high; Samson hadn’t given it much thought then, but looking back, Hadiza had bestowed herself like a true savior, and he was somewhat accepting that it was she who defeated him in battle and not Cullen.

            Beyond that, his contempt for the Inquisition at large remained.

            The first stall he had to muck out was by far the worst, and the most embarrassing. It belonged to a creature called a nuggalope, and had he not been cleaning up its mountainous piles of shit, Samson might have laughed. It was a giant nug with horns, what in the fuck did the Inquisition need with such a beast?

            Samson learned, in the few hours it took him to muck out the stables, that he did not mind the work. The strain and the labor made him forget the ache in his body, the burn in his blood, and even, for a time, the contempt in his heart. He worked tirelessly, heedless of the passerby, heedless of anything but the next task. It was the first time he had felt so driven and full of purpose, even if that purpose was shoveling shit and brushing down mounts. He fell into a routine in those days, recalling times before when he was a Templar, when he stood for something far greater than himself. He knew he had much to answer for, even if he felt he had the best intentions.

            No, this was a sign that he would begin anew. Start from the bottom, prove that he was just as worthy of respect as Cullen. He would not ask for mercy, for he had not yet earned it. He would prove to Hadiza that her judgment was sound, that sparing his life was not a waste.

            And he could not for the life of him figure out why proving himself to her had become so singularly important to him.

            When he wasn’t mucking out the stables, chopping firewood, or helping in the construction around Skyhold, he was in the undercroft, bearing Dagna’s questions and prodding.

            “I’ve already told you everything you wanted to know,” he snarled, “what more can you wrench from me?” Dagna wasn’t daunted by anything, Samson realized, she simply laughed and continued her work. He stood, sighing as she prodded the muscles of his lower back, taking measurements with a pair of calipers.

            “It’s not like I can get Corypheus to come and explain the complexities of how you’re resistant to this stuff,” she said matter-of-factly, “and the Inquisitor needs more runes—Samson?”

            Samson felt light-headed, dizzy. The world was tilting to the left, and then spinning. He wasn’t sure what was happening until he realized that since coming into the Inquisition’s custody that he’d not had any lyrium in his system. His head pounded, his bones ached, and all this time he thought it was because he’d lost the red armor. Perhaps that had something to do with it but this was worse than before; this was worse than the time he was expelled from the Chantry, when he was forced to beg in the streets for enough coin to get a vial, just enough to tide him over until the shakes started again.

            “Samson!” Dagna’s voice sounded slower, as if time was slowing around him, then stopping because the darkness rushed in from the sides of his vision, spots dancing in his eyes, the light of the world dwindling and rushing away from him so fast until he couldn’t see it anymore.

 

* * *

 

             Murmurs woke him.

            “—long he’s been off the lyrium? You could have mentioned that he wasn’t on his doses.” Samson’s vision was still bleary, but he recognized Hadiza’s angry voice. He heard a deeper murmur, agitated and angry, Cullen’s.

            “Do you really want him to retain his abilities when he’s our prisoner? I couldn’t risk him becoming a danger to the mages…or to you.” Cullen protested. Samson’s vision finally sharpened and the world came into vivid focus, the fuzziness turning into defined slopes and lines. He recognized the cot in the undercroft, and realized he was still there. Dagna and the smith were nowhere to be found. For now, he was alone in the presence of the Inquisitor and the Commander.

            Fuck him.

            “Cullen, you said yourself that many don’t survive lyrium withdrawal,” Hadiza’s voice was plaintive, and he knew without seeing that her lips shaped the words beautifully, that her brow was creased with concern, pleading with her obstinate subordinate to see reason, “if he dies, then we have lost our only lead. I may as well have executed him after judging him if this is the fate I’ve condemned him to.”

            Samson let out a small sigh; they didn’t hear him. He listened for a while longer.

            “And what would you have me do, Hadiza? Put him back on lyrium? He’d retain his abilities, and what if he decided to try and escape? What if he corners you? I can’t…” Samson heard Cullen hesitated; the fucking idiot was always hesitating, “…I can’t risk you being alone with him.”

            Samson froze. Is that what this was about, then? Cullen was so fearful of Hadiza’s sparing his life that he thought he risked losing her? The woman had beaten him fair and square in battle, how the fuck could he possibly hurt her, now?

            Why in Andraste’s sacred name would he ever want to?

            Samson shied from the answer.

            “I’m fine, Cullen. But I said I wouldn’t tolerate abuse. If you are doing this out of some deep-seated vendetta, then stop. Put him back on the blue, even if it’s just small doses at first. I need him healthy…or as healthy as he can be.” She said firmly. Samson listened to the creak of leather and armor, heard Cullen’s sigh through his nose, and knew without needing to see his nostrils were flared in anger.

            “If that’s what you wish, Hadiza, then fine. I’ll let the stock keeper know,” footsteps, he was walking away, “…what do you intend to do with him when this is over? When Corypheus is slain and order restored?”

            Samson found himself wanting to know that as well. Would Hadiza turn him loose to die a slow and painful death from lyrium corruption? Or would she lock him in a deep, dark hole, his usefulness expired as the Inquisition turned its attentions to other pursuits? He couldn’t see her being compelled to do either, but he was an asset only because the greatest threat to her was still at large.

            “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, Cullen,” she replied imperiously, “just get him some lyrium as soon as possible. I’ll do what I can to ensure he isn’t in too much pain.”

            Samson narrowed his eyes, his lip curling into a sneer. Cullen didn’t fucking deserve her, honestly. She was compassionate and he just wanted Samson to rot. What did she see in the man aside from his charming good looks and his knack for being befuddled around beautiful women?

            Why did he even care about that?

            “Very well,” Cullen acceded reluctantly, “he’s your responsibility, then.” And with that, the Commander left. Samson’s ears strained to listen for Hadiza’s footsteps to follow. He bet she would, but he was surprised to hear her come closer. She pulled up the chair next to his cot and sat down with a sigh. For a moment, Samson said nothing, and watched her. He was too exhausted to do too much moving, and she seemed to exasperated to do much talking. Better to shut up and wait, then.

            “You know,” she began after the silence of the undercroft grew too much, shattered only by the dripping of melting ice on stone, “sometimes I think it might have been easier to simply exile you.” She didn’t sound angry so much as she sounded amused. She made a _tsk_ ing noise with her teeth, turning her gaze toward the open-end of the undercroft. Samson loved her profile, he realized. She was haughty and proud, yet her face was expressive, capable of a range of emotions from hard to soft.

            He liked the look of her when she was soft.

            “But then I realize that’s not the kind of person I am,” she explained and Samson understood that this was the listening part, “I can’t in good conscience condemn a man to die the same way the Chantry did.”

            _That_ got his attention.

            She hazarded a slow glance toward him, pale eyes wondering, her expression caught between concern and amusement at her own musings. It was unnerving, staring at her, so he looked away, trying to calm the fluttering shit in his stomach. Was this indigestion? His appetite had been all over the place lately, but his stomach only did this when she was around him.

            “You mentioned that the Order expelled you and left you with no support to help you get off lyrium or even live a comfortable life in gratitude to the years you sacrificed for the Chantry,” she said, and her voice was sad, “Cullen told me why you were expelled. I think—between you and me—he still clings to whatever beliefs he held in Kirkwall.”

            Samson wanted to smile, so he turned his head away from her and grinned. Smart girl, that Hadiza. Smart enough to realize that a Templar who had been just as responsible for the mess of the Kirkwall Circle for his inaction as the proactive abuse of his knight-commander was likely not going places. Still, he wondered why she was telling him all this.

            “I managed to mend a bit of the damage the lyrium’s done to your body. I can’t slow the corruption but I can ease the withdrawal symptoms and perhaps…add time to what little you’ve got left.” Samson didn’t turn to face her, but his smile faded. Maker where the hell did they find this woman?

            “I’ve also informed Dagna to hold off on her research of you for a while. I need you to recover, Samson. You’re no good to the Inquisition if you’re half-dead.” It sounded cruel but she was right. Samson turned to face her as she stood up.

            “You’re too kind, my lady,” he said softly, and she smiled at him and it might as well have been a benediction from the Maker.

            When she walked away Samson regretted not reaching for her hand.


	8. Chapter 8

            Recovery wasn’t easy, but he hadn’t expected anything to be easy since he first took his vows in the Order. Nonetheless, recovery was painful and agonizing, and with Dagna forbidden to experiment on him during the process, it gave him more free time to wander the grounds. During that time, he learned quite a few things he hadn’t expected from the Inquisition.

            First and foremost, Hadiza led from the frontlines.

            He found that to be odd, dangerous, and absolutely ridiculous. Hadiza was not just a figurehead of the Inquisition, no more than he had been a figurehead for Corypheus’ Red Templar army. She was the brain and the fulcrum upon which the Inquisition turned. If they lost her in the field, what then?

            It occurred to him how easy it would have been to crush the Inquisition had he known this. He could have directed his efforts to hunting her down specifically, could have brought her broken and bloodied back to Corypheus and put an end to the threat to the Elder One’s plans. Samson was sitting in the garden, shadowed by his escort, and he thought these horrible things, and tried to imagine having to bring Hadiza back to Corypheus, who would have killed her painfully.

            His stomach turned.

            His escort, a taciturn Ferelden by the name of Raynis, looked uneasily at him, so Samson finally addressed the lad.

            “For fuck’s sake, lad, do I look equipped to run off? I plan on sitting and staying here a while,” he said with a snort, “and no I won’t tell that Ferelden commander with the pommel up his ass that you sat down on the job.”

            The younger man’s cheeks turned red with embarrassment and Samson grunted. Let the lad stand on his feet for however long Samson decided he’d enjoy the garden, it was no skin off his nose. If anything, the garden was fragrant enough that his headache dulled, and he found himself relaxing, leaning his head back against the wall, and shutting his eyes. The drone of bees and voices in the background served to soothe him, and before he realized it, he was nodding off. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out, but he was roused by murmurs and a gentle shake to his shoulders. Samson blinked, bleary-eyed and unfocused and yawned, licking his dry lips.

            The sun was setting, and there she was, in the garden, kneeling over one of the many large pots used to grow essential herbs and plants. She was in that damnable midnight-blue robe again, the elfroot pattern embroidered along it. Her hair was loose, falling along her shoulders, and she looked…serene. She was checking the blood lotuses for rot, casting tiny creation spells to aid in their recovery from any parasites that might have chewed through. Samson watched her, riveted, as she stood, looking rather pleased.

Hadiza Trevelyan had something around her that calmed people, of that there was no doubt, but with him, he burned. He was burning as if he’d just swallowed a draught of red lyrium. The way she moved made him wonder if a woman like that was as graceful in bed as she was outside of it. He entertained the thought for a moment. He was willing to bet she was all passion and sensation. He’d seen the crackle of her anger; the woman was probably a scorcher in the hay. Cullen probably didn’t know what to do with her, but Samson did. He knew exactly what to do with a woman like that.

“Samson,” she said, making her way toward him, “didn’t see you here. What are you about?” When Raynis stirred from his post, she smiled at the boy, waved him away, dismissing him.

“I’ll take over the escort duties for now.” She said pleasantly, “You’re relieved. Carry on.”

“Aye, Your Worship.” Raynis saluted, and with a look of barely-concealed relief, strode off. Samson watched him go, a growl already in his throat. Without much preamble, Hadiza sat next to him.

“So,” she began, “I should apologize for…your initial treatment during your incarceration. But something tells me you won’t accept it.” Samson frowned, then snorted.

“Of course I wouldn’t accept it,” he said wryly, “you’re not the one who tried to kick a man when he was down.” He wanted to say something about how she also wasn’t the one who was willing to let it go by unchecked but he refrained. Hadiza hesitated, then chuckled.

“This is true,” she conceded, “still, I feel I should apologize. It was my decree that got you put down there.” She crossed her legs and the robes fell in such a way that he could make out her shape beneath them. Samson took a deep breath, mindful of the residual soreness in his healing ribs.

“Your judgment imprisoned me, but it was my own actions that led me to be judged to begin with, my lady,” he didn’t miss Hadiza’s startled look, and he shrugged, “you think I don’t know what I’ve done?” Her eyes went wide.

“No! No, it’s not that at all. It’s just…you’re so forthright about it. I would have expected you to be more reticent,” she drew herself up, exaggeratingly haughty, cleared her throat, and said in her best imitation of a male voice, “ ‘my reasons are my own.’” Samson couldn’t help it, he cracked a smile; the woman was adorable.

“My reasons _are_ my own, Inquisitor,” he assured her, “but I’ve no cause to keep them hidden.” Hadiza was quiet for a moment, and she simply watched him. Her gaze was heavy with an intelligence and intuition that unnerved him. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

“So you say.” She said at last, her voice soft, and her expression softer, “You definitely don’t fit the part of a storybook villain.” She stood, stretching. Samson didn’t move at first, but then the dinner bell sounded. Hadiza smiled down at him. So that’s what this was about. She was inviting him to dinner. His gaze darted away from hers.

“Sure you wanna be seen with a ‘traitor to the Order’, Inquisitor?” He asked bitterly, “People around here gossip as bad as Orlesian courtesans.”

Hadiza laughed and Samson realized that lines drawn were nothing to her depending on the circumstances. She crossed them as if they were dust beneath her feet.

“What will they say? The Inquisitor took her meal with one of the prisoners? Samson, you can eat with me, or you cannot. But I am your escort for the night and I have to get you back to your cell. Now,” she drew in a breath, “on your feet.” Samson didn’t know why, but he stood up, and managed to look less exhausted than he felt. Hadiza smirked and led the way. He followed, his stomach flip-flopping, his heart racing, and his palms sweating.

He had to get back to his cell. He had to block out the vision of her immediately or he was going to suffer for it later, he knew.

 _This shit is not supposed to happen_.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            Samson didn’t take his meal with the Inquisitor that evening, but the walk back had been pleasant. He didn’t say much, but she didn’t seem to mind. He was content to listen to her musings, plucking at the threads of her thoughts as she told him what was expected of him. He wouldn’t be in the stables forever, and during his convalescence, she stressed that she needed him to stay physically fit. He asked her if she was planning to conscript him into the army and she laughed him off.

            If it were true, that meant he’d be answering to Cullen. Samson could endure anything but that. The man was insufferable in his self-righteousness.

            When they arrived at his cell, Hadiza gave the order to the guard to have a meal brought to him, and then she said her good-byes and left him on his own.

            Now he was alone, wondering what to do with the hours before the lights-out bell rang. He could envision Hadiza’s evening. She was likely laughing in the main hall amongst friends, enjoying the company of people who alternately worshipped and cherished her. She was probably sitting next to, or across from, Commander Cullen, sharing intimate looks, brushing fingertips against each other’s hands, waiting desperately for a polite enough time to excuse themselves so they could be alone together. Samson had seen them around during his time on the grounds. He’d see her go to his tower, watch them walk the battlements, wishing he could hear what they said. Cullen never was much of a womanizer, but the women always flocked after him like flies to a corpse’s stink.

            He imagined in those late hours, that Hadiza would take Cullen back to her chambers, and they’d make love. And Cullen, being the straight-laced and dutiful bastard he was, probably would have been counting how many strokes in and out of her until she came. Only then would he allow himself pleasure. Samson imagined, bitter with a burgeoning envy, that Cullen spent the night in her vast bedchamber, breathing air that was not stagnate and stale, sleeping on fine Orlesian linens, and one of the most enigmatic women curled in his arms.

            He growled in frustration, more at the fact that he was now imagining Cullen’s life being better than his current predicament. It was easier to bear when he saw it with his own two fucking eyes; this imagination shit had to stop. He tried to force himself to think of anything else, but Hadiza’s laugh, the way she tossed her head, the way her eyes looked when she was listening intently, her little _tsk_ of annoyance. He imagined her in a veritable artist render, recalling battling her in the Arbor Wilds. She was splendid and terrible in a fight, all lightning and fire and ice, defended on all sides by her companions. Fighting her had been an experience, and in retrospect he felt as if perhaps there was something to be learned from this. She had beaten him in battle, but she neither gloated nor brought it up to continue to beat him. She took her victory and she moved on.

            Cullen, on the other hand, acted as it were he who struck the blow that took him down. He turned up his nose at Samson, glaring and bright in his anger, as if he had the right to judge anyone. There were none left alive in Kirkwall who would take the ex-knight-commander to task about his own betrayal of his duties. Samson could spit he was so disgusted. Had things gone differently, perhaps he might have been approached to join the Inquisition and not Cullen. His thoughts chased themselves to new possibilities and Samson finally gave up and let them go where they willed.

 

 

 

            The next day, Samson decided to brave the Inquisition’s vast library. It was a circular chamber, with the top most floor reserved for the Spymaster’s command post and the rookery, but there were books aplenty for Samson to devour. His escort didn’t say much, allowing Samson time to relieve himself, wash down, and have a semi-decent breakfast before beginning his day. He was browsing one of the many shelves, looking for nothing in particular, anything to keep his mind sharp until the lyrium was given to him. He imagined Cullen was taking his time on that particular assignment on purpose. Finding something to his liking, a tome on the practical purposes of various schools of magic, he sat down to read. His eyes devoured the words, but his mind barely processed them. He was too distracted.

            Thinking about _her_ again.

            “This is such bullshit,” he heard a voice say on the other side of the shelf, “Dorian, give me a hand with these would you?” Samson’s eyes narrowed. That wasn’t Hadiza; the voice was too jagged at the edges…too raw. When he saw who rounded the corner he frowned. The woman looked well enough like Hadiza, but there were startling contrasts.

Aja Trevelyan was tall, much like her sister, with skin just as dark, and the same unnerving silver eyes. Her hair was jet, but shaved on either side, and worn in bound, well-kept locs. She had the echo of her sister’s beauty, but there was a harshness to her, a weathered look, accompanied by the diagonal scar that crossed her face. She had her sister’s beauty, but the savagery that underlined it made her more imposing. She wasn’t wearing her armor, thank the Maker, but he could tell from her stance that she was a force in combat. He’d not gotten a chance to glimpse her back in the Arbor Wilds, but he’d heard enough stories since coming to Skyhold. She had an armful of heavy-looking tomes.

“Now, now, Lady Trevelyan,” Dorian’s voice was teasing, “you made the suggestion and you have to live with it. _I_ was merely in earshot.” The mage’s arms were free, and Aja struggled to keep the books from sliding out of her arms.

“Fucking Tevinter,” she muttered through gritted teeth, just as the top book slid off the stack and onto the table Samson was sitting at. He spied the cover, and narrowed his eyes. What was the Inquisition doing with such a rare volume.

“Careful!” Dorian said, “These tomes are worth more than your life! I went through great pains to procure them.” Aja set the sat down on the table, before her silver gaze settled on Samson.

“Hey. You.” She said and her voice was all noble authority with just a touch of uncouth, “You busy? Of course you aren’t. Give me a hand with these? My damnable sister just got a wild hair up her ass about some new project, and you’d think this charming asshole would be of help. But he just stands there and looks pretty.”

Dorian preened.

“I did my part, Lady Trevelyan,” he said in mock indignation, “I procured the tomes for you so you didn’t even have to go searching! But yes, most of the time it is simply enough to stand here and look dashing, don’t you agree?” Aja rolled her eyes and sighed heavily.

“My name’s Aja, Dorian. Lady Trevelyan makes me sound like some old dowager.” She glared at Samson, “Well? Shit, you going to help or not? Grab some of these so we can go and entertain my sister’s wild fucking magical ideas.”

Samson didn’t respond, but the thought of seeing Hadiza again was intriguing to him. It was an excuse, at least, but he’d not take lip from her sister, no matter how fucking strong she was.

“Your mother teach you to speak like that, girl?” Samson demanded, “I’m no one’s fuckin’ slave.”

“No, you’re a prisoner, and right now, you’re testing my patience. Grab a stack, let’s go.” Aja’s tone was sharp, but it lacked that whip crack of authority that he’d heard Hadiza use. Hadiza could have gotten him off his ass, but Aja just grated on his fucking nerves. He didn’t budge. Aja narrowed her eyes at him and for a moment the mask of her face cracked to reveal just why she was so terrifying.

She was a fucking Reaver.

The madness that dwelled behind her sterling eyes was from the dragon blood she probably drank. The woman had the draconic madness in her body, now, and Samson knew from experience that Reavers were often unstable, their instability heightened by violence. Right now, he’d challenged a beast, and that look she was giving him was the only warning he was liable to receive before she decided to reach for him. Thinking it was better to simply do as commanded, Samson grabbed the book stack, including the tome he’d picked out, and stood. Aja’s face visibly relaxed and it was almost as if she hadn’t revealed that…that _hunger_ to him at all. Dorian did nothing to hide his smug smile as they made their way out of the library.

 

* * *

 

The wild hair up Hadiza’s ass showed no signs of calming down, as evident from her actions when they arrived. They were in one of the empty rooms in the keep, below ground. It had been recently cleaned and scrubbed, smelling of lye, and the stone was still damp. It was windowless, and several torch sconces lined the walls, illuminating the room in golden firelight.

“Don’t step there!” She snapped as Aja’s boot paused in mid-air. She stepped backwards. The entire floor was covered in a chalk circle. Samson recognized it, as it was usually the same design as a summoning center. The runes within the concentric circles were very different, however, and Hadiza was kneeling in the far side, writing with the chalk. When she finished, she stood, raised her arms and Samson tasted the magic in the air, felt it stir his aching bones as the chalk burned into the stone in a small display of power. She had etched the circle permanently into the stone and Samson dreaded its purpose.

“Alright,” she turned to them, “let’s get started. Dorian, how come you never suggested this to me before?” Dorian smiled.

“My dear, had I thought this had a chance in the void of being successful, I would have. But, you seem determined, so I will aid you how I can. Aside, this would have gone over quicker with a bit of blood magic.”

Aja groaned in exasperation.

“Whose blood, Dorian? The book said a _willing_ sacrifice. Who the hell is going to give up their life for a potential wild goose chase?” She demanded. Samson frowned.

“Since I’ve been forced here, I’d really like to know what fuckin’ devilry you three are plotting as if I’m not standing in the fuckin’ room.” He said flatly. Silence followed and Aja snorted with laughter. Hadiza blinked, then smiled.

“What _are_ you doing here, Samson?” She asked, genuinely curious. Samson wanted to throw the books at her.

“Ask your fuckin’ sister, Inquisitor. She’s the one bullying old men into doing tasks assigned to her.” He replied. It was Dorian’s turn to laugh. Aja whirled.

“I’m not a bully!” She protested. Dorian laughed harder. “I’m not!”

Hadiza pinched the bridge of her nose, sighing.

“Alright, well, you’re here, now, so I might as well rope you in on this… _fuckin’ devilry_ , as you so eloquently put it.” She said and Samson grinned at her. Despite it all, she smiled back, shaking her head.

Hadiza explained her plan in detail, and the more she spoke, the more Samson wanted to know. The woman knew her magic, for sure, and he wanted to tell her how much he knew about magic as well, and yet he remained silent. Hadiza took the heavy tomes from him, moving it to the large desk on the far wall in the corner. There were several reasons he knew her plan wouldn’t work, chief among them being that someone had already attempted this in the past.

But he wasn’t going to stop her, now.

“Wait a minute, if this magic can be reversed and someone can use it against you, why not just use Samson to kill the whole spell and cut off the connection before its made?” Aja wondered. Samson did not like that idea. He was lyrium-dry and he wasn’t sure how strong his Templar abilities would be given the sheer scope and complexity of the magic. Hadiza tapped her lips with an index finger.

“Actually, that’s not a bad idea, but why don’t we ask him if he’s comfortable playing Templar to my mage, hm?” She gave him a warm smile and his stomach did that fucking _thing_ again, “How about it? Want to be my Templar guardian while I attempt the impossible?”

“If you think you’re in danger of being possessed by demons, then yeah, but for this, the only danger is someone on the other end looking back. And uh…he doesn’t usually look back so much as _reach_.” Samson explained. Hadiza’s brows rose.

“You’ve seen this done before?” She asked. Samson gave her a slow nod.

“Could this harm her in any way?” Aja demanded, her tone grave. Samson thought for a moment and wondered. He’d seen Corypheus reverse a scrying spell, but he had no idea what happened to the one doing the scrying. He wagered they likely weren’t around anymore. However, it was best to err on the side of caution in this respect.

“If she’s scrying for him, then just play it fuckin’ safe and build up your mental barriers. Don’t try and force it otherwise he’ll crash through them and your mind apart.” Samson was only hypothesizing at this point, but he hazarded a guess that’s what would happen. He’d devoured enough magical theory to know that scrying spells were dangerous if the one being searched for was more powerful than the one doing the searching.

“Diza,” Aja said, “if this can kill you…”

Hadiza shook her head.

“It’s the only way at this point. Leliana’s people are turning up with _nothing_ and the hour of our victory or defeat is looming over our heads. I have to try something, Aja. Just…don’t tell anyone else. Cullen would have my head if he knew.”

Samson sighed, rubbing his throbbing temples. Hadiza frowned.

“Samson, you’re the only one in this room who has seen Corypheus at work. I need you to be my Templar guardian in this in case I go too far. Consider it part of your rehabilitation.” She said firmly. Samson watched her a moment, and in that moment they were the only two people in the room. Dorian sighed.

“Just do it, Samson,” he said, “she’ll never let up if you don’t.”

Samson didn’t want to do it because he was forced. But this would mean spending a lot of time in this small chamber with Hadiza.

“Alright, but I’m going to need that lyrium to build up enough power to dispel such powerful magic if need be.” He told her, equal part anticipatory at finally getting back on the blue, and equal parts apprehensive because it meant being bound to the Inquisition for his supply. But Hadiza was not the Chantry. Hadiza was offering him a chance to reclaim something he thought he’d lost. Everything he cared about was ashes. And Hadiza, in that moment, eager to try this untested magic, and begging him to be her guardian through it all…in that moment he saw Maddox in her. It nearly broke his heart.

“Are you sure that’s safe?” Aja queried, “You said yourself the damage was done…”

“I’ve managed to reverse some of it,” Hadiza countered, “and this won’t be like the Chantry. They don’t provide healing support to their Templars to counter the mal-effects of lyrium. But…but I do.” She met his eyes. Samson saw something flicker in them, something bright and vivid and just beyond his reach.

Hope.


	9. Chapter 9

            Samson got his lyrium dosages in the coming weeks. He was given two doses daily, one with his morning meal, and the other with his evening meal. It was not as potent as the red, but it eased his discomfort considerably and he found he attacked his work with a more clear-minded vigor than before. He’d burned away his bitterness and now he sweat because the work focused him, but the lyrium took the edge off.

Master Dennett had taken to giving him less menial tasks and had begun entrusting him with the care of the mounts proper. He still was not allowed to touch Hadiza’s dracolisk (not that he wanted to), and Dennett informed him that Hadiza tended to the draconic beast herself. At that, Samson was amused if a bit incredulous. Hadiza didn’t seem the type to know how to properly shoe a mount, but he learned in the coming weeks that horseflesh was the bread and butter upon which House Trevelyan’s prosperity stood. How not, with their symbol being the majestic profile of the Friesian?

            Samson was taking a break after shoeing one of the Orlesian coursers when he spotted Cullen on the practice field. Since their ‘chat’ in his cell, Samson hadn’t seen much of the Commander save in passing, and Samson bet the man was going out of his way to avoid him. When they were forced to pass too close, Cullen didn’t bother to acknowledge his presence and Samson didn’t bother to care. He stood by his convictions, most of which were mired in the ugly truth Cullen so desperately tried to ignore. But watching Cullen bark orders at his men reminded him of their days back in Kirkwall. Nothing had really changed in the man, save he was a few years older, and he was fucking a mage.

            The thought still galled him.

            Samson took a swig from his waterskin, and turned away. He continued his work, and by the time the sun had drifted past its zenith, he was done, making his way back into the keep, his taciturn escort in tow.

            “You haven’t said but a few fuckin’ words to me since you got assigned to this boring duty, Raynis,” Samson said casually, “your Commander forbid you to talk to me? Fear you might get corrupted?”

            Raynis’ face went a little red and Samson rolled his eyes.

            “Fuckin’ typical. The bastard’s still jumping at shadows.” Samson muttered as he made his way back to his cell, which was less of a cell and more of a small bedroom. It was dry, clean, and his, and much better than rotting below the keep at the mercy of Cullen’s secret vendetta. However, given the lunch bell had just rung, it was lacking in something.

            “Where’s my fuckin’ food?” Samson demanded of the guard posted at his door.

            “The Inquisitor sent word. You’re to…take your meal in her new office this afternoon.” The guard said in clipped tones. Samson’s brows furrowed. New office? What the fuck? He wasn’t even sure where her _old_ offi—oh. Right. Andraste’s flaming sword he was daft for that.

            “Right. Guess I better not keep Her Worship waiting.” For some reason, he was looking forward to it. Hadiza had summoned him, specifically, and that held promise. It was a chance to truly be alone with her, to speak to her from the position of…well, not an equal, per se, but he wouldn’t be half-dead and on his fucking back this time around that was for sure.

            When he arrived at the Inquisitor’s ‘new office’, the door was shut, as expected, so he knocked.

            “Just a moment!” Came the muffled response. He heard shuffling, the sound of glass clinking together, and thump, and a muttered swear. He waited, arms crossed, as the door unlocked and creaked open. Hadiza blinked, narrowing her eyes at Raynis.

            “You. Beat it. Breathe one word of where I am to the Commander and I’ll roast you on a spit.” She said. Samson’s brows went up, but his escort went ashen, throwing up a shaking salute, and was all too quick to abandon his charge in favor of safer pursuits. Samson watched him go and let out a huff.

            “Boy hasn’t spoken to me since he was assigned. I almost forgot he was here.” He muttered. Hadiza smiled, opening the door a little wider and gestured for Samson to come in. He stepped inside, and his belly rumbled in response to the fragrant scent of whatever meal she’d had brought for the two of them. It was set up in another corner of the room, and Samson did a quick circuit and realized that Hadiza had been busy. The chamber looked more like a room in the Circle than anything, and she’d even had a small bookcase brought in to hold the tomes she needed specifically. A small alchemist’s lab had been set up, where she could mix quick potions, tonics, and poultices for her use, and her desk was littered with blank scrolls, vellum, and unopened inkpots. This was the chamber of a spellcaster, through and through.

            How could Cullen ever hope to be with a woman like her?

            Samson made his way over to the table where their meal was set up, and noticed that it was set up only for one.

            “Eat.” She said, waving her hand dismissively, “I’ve already taken my meal, but I wanted to borrow you before someone else did.”

            “You practically own me already, my lady,” Samson said with a grunt, “not as if I’m like to go anywhere.” The lunch consisted of a hearty beef and vegetable stew, but he detected the scent of unfamiliar spices. He had to ask.

            “What’s in this?” Hadiza was pacing, a book in her hand, reading intently.

            “Some Rivaini teardrop peppers.” She said absently, “I guess my mother’s roots are strong in me. I think Ferelden taste is as bland as their sense of style.” Samson smirked. They were both Marchers, but he forgot how close Antiva and Rivain were to Ostwick, not to mention Ostwick was a port city. Still, he should have guessed she’d be part Rivaini. It accounted for her complexion, at least.

            “And who gave you the eyes?” Samson asked between bites. Hadiza paused, giving him a dark look.

            “Mother.” She said laconically, and then went back to reading. Samson grunted. Their mother’s genes were strong then, to have passed on such a startling look to both daughters. He watched her while he ate, her lovely face drawn in pensive concentration, lips moving as she read to herself. Samson took that time to learn her expressions, to learn the little things that made her tick. She bit her lip when she saw something she wanted to remember later, tapped the page three times, and then would walk over to the desk to scribble something quickly in the little journal she kept. She shoved that same errant lock of her from her face, even though most of it was bound in a loose bun at her nape. Samson wondered for a moment what that hair would feel like all twisted up in his hand.

            “Fuck,” she murmured, stopping in her tracks, “The spell calls for serpentstone. Shit, did we use it all?” Samson realized she was talking to herself. She took a deep breath, sighed in frustration. He smiled.

            “Summerstone is a better choice,” he said and she looked up, brows knit; he wondered if she fucking forgot he was even in the room, “when you use the summerstone, it focuses the sight better. You’ll see clearly than you would if you used serpentstone.”

            Hadiza stared at him, mouth slightly open in apparent shock. Samson took a pull from the honey mead, hiding his wolfish smile.

            “Didn’t the Commander tell you? We Templars are well-read,” he wiped his mouth with the back of her hand, “least we’re supposed to be. I guess during my time I took a pretty active interest in the reading material. Interesting stuff, that.” Hadiza was still staring at him, trying to find the proper words needed to articulate exactly how she was feeling, but her expression alone was enough for him. She coughed once.

            “How do you know the summerstone will work?” She asked him, trying to dispel whatever snarls in her mind he’d placed there. Samson wiped his hands on his shirt and stood.

            “Maddox was a dear friend of mine, Inquisitor,” he said tersely, willing the lump out of his throat at the thought that Maddox would never be anything ever again, “and a brilliant mage. He and I learned a lot from one another.” At that Hadiza did pause, and her expression looked crestfallen.

            “Maker’s breath,” she murmured, “Samson, I’m sorry. That was…that was careless of me.” Samson hated that look on her face; the way her lush lower lip poked out and her eyes took on something soft and vulnerable. He hadn’t meant to make her feel bad.

            “Don’t worry about it,” he assured her, “not your fault. Maddox always was a stubborn one. Bucked against authority whenever he could. Guess that’s why I took a shine to him.” He shrugged, but he knew it was more than that. He remembered Maddox before Meredith put the brand on him; Maddox who was quick to laugh or tell a joke, Maddox who loved his magic despite the stifling atmosphere of the Circle. Maddox who was patient enough to pore over theories, spells, and technical details of magic both from a mage and Templar perspective.

            His fist clenched, remembering how he’d been caught, remembering Meredith casting him aside and punishing Maddox for something as foolish as loving someone. Expelled Samson from the Order for something as farfetched as seeing a mage as something other than a fucking mage. And all Cullen did was fling Maddox’s sacrifice and death in his face, as if that were somehow a way to make him feel worse than he already did. Maddox knew what he was about—and it was a testament to Cullen’s utter ignorance that he thought Maddox under some influence. He may have been Tranquil, but he knew. He followed Samson after Kirkwall’s chaos erupted, and Samson had protected him when the streets began running red with blood from the Gallows.

            And Cullen had the **gall** to use his sacrifice as guilt-fodder.

            “You cared about him,” Hadiza said softly, “I…when we spoke with him, he seemed fond of you. As fond as one could sound as…” She couldn’t even say the word. Samson didn’t blame her. Being a mage, she probably didn’t dare speak the word for fear the brand might just appear on her head out of irrational fear. She hadn’t even been in the Gallows and she feared it, but he’d heard Ostwick’s Circle had remained intact even after Kirkwall boiled over into the Marches.

            No, her fear of the word was something else, he could tell.

            “He was a friend to me in a place where having friends could be deadly,” Samson explained, “and he was brilliant. He didn’t deserve any of that. And I wish I could have convinced him to leave when I…did what I did.” Hadiza nodded, trying to even out her breathing. Samson watched her face, wondered if at moments like this, Cullen cupped her face in his hands, kissed her softly, and told her not to worry. No, Cullen probably stammered over his words, scuffed his foot, and rubbed the back of his neck like some Chantry brother who got propositioned by a working girl.

            He wondered if there would ever be a time where he didn’t want to spit in that man’s face.

            “Perhaps you’ll make new friends in the future,” she told him and he blinked, slightly confused.

            “You may have your jest, my lady.” He said irritably. Hadiza laughed.

            “Not jesting, I assure you.” She made a face, “Don’t look at me like that, I’m serious. I do not think I should hold it over your head that you made a very poor choice in this…chaos. This is your opportunity to rectify that.” Hadiza fixed him with a steady gaze and Samson couldn’t find it in his heart to brush her off. So he made some noise of affirmation.

            “Now, I have to get some summerstone,” Hadiza didn’t look the least bit pleased, “perhaps Dagna has some left over. I’m not up for another expedition to the Hinterlands.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. Samson chuckled, saw that errant lock of her sweep along her cheek and fought the urge to brush it from her face. He just wanted…for once, to know what it was like to be in Cullen’s shoes. Instead, Hadiza tucked it behind her ear and sighed.

            “Will you be able to stay out of trouble while I’m away?” She asked, and there was a smile in her voice. Samson snorted.

            “I’m not a dog, Inquisitor,” he growled, “I’ll manage.”

            “Hadiza.” She said suddenly. He blinked.

            “What?” He didn’t follow. She smiled.

            “In here, my name is Hadiza.” Samson stared at her and she simply stared back, that damn smile on her face. He hesitated, tried to wrap his mouth around her name, tried to taste it on his tongue, tried to sample whatever sensation saying it would inspire in him.

            “Hadiza…” He said gently, and swallowed when he saw her expression go soft around the edges, saw the warmth bloom in her eyes, making them appear more like molten silverite than tempered steel. They were standing too close, he realized. Standing there, he could feel the heat coming from her body, and her expression changed. They were so close that he could reach out and touch her if he wanted. He took a deep breath, caught the scent of jasmine in her hair.

            Then he stepped backward.

            “It’s a nice name, Inqui—Hadiza.” It was. He felt the stir in his belly when he said it, felt a thrill in his skin when his tongue curled around the letters and syllables. He felt her name settle in his brain, felt it twine with the lyrium song in his blood, felt it become apart of the chorus that honed his focus.

            _Hadiza_.


	10. Chapter 10

            It was the first time Samson felt a sense of purpose in a long time. Corypheus had given him back his sword, but over time, he knew that it was not enough. With Hadiza’s new project well underway, there was the potential to be the man he once was. Over the weeks, they took their time, carefully gathering the tools and ingredients for the spell. And over those weeks, Samson saw an improvement in his health. Breathing was easier, and he found that his muscles were thicker, heavier. His appetite became regulated, and his eyes were clearing up. He blamed the lyrium, but he wouldn’t complain. His corruption was still encroaching, but slowly. And he learned in those weeks, that Hadiza loved to laugh.

            He didn’t know why, but that gave him pleasure.

            While he was no longer allowed in the war room, Hadiza always had a missive sent his way to take lunch with her in the scrying chamber. And there, they worked. Samson learned that Hadiza was truly gifted in her craft. She reveled in her magic in the same way Maddox had. She explored beyond the boundaries the Circle set, shaping the raw magic from the Fade to suit her desires. He saw in her the same lust for life that had endeared Maddox to him and he encouraged it. He smiled when she wasn’t looking, watching her use her magic as easily as she breathed.

            Sometimes, they were seen in public together, usually when she trained with the other mages in Skyhold. There was still no word as to where Corypheus had fled following his defeat at the Arbor Wilds. Hadiza moved with a fighter’s surety, as oppose to the evasive movements of a battlemage. It never occurred to Samson to ask about her past, but that would have been presumptuous.

Hadiza was in the garden when Cullen showed up. Samson watched his face go ashen momentarily and resisted the urge to laugh. The man was bedding this woman and still couldn’t trust her with her own abilities. He rolled his eyes instead. Hadiza was in the midst of trying to combine two spells at once, an arcane shield followed by a lightning bolt. However, her shield developed holes during the second casting and she swore under her breath, downing a lyrium potion to replenish her mana. Looking up, she saw Cullen, and smiled.

            _Here we fuckin’ go_. Samson thought in aggravation. When the fuck was the lunch bell going to sound?

            “Commander,” Hadiza sounded slightly winded, and there was a light sheen of sweat along her hairline, and her eyes were brilliant and shining, “come to drill the mages as well?” Cullen smiled at her warmly, and there was a tenderness there that he bestowed on no one else. He didn’t seem to care that Samson was within earshot as he bent his head low to murmur something in her ear. Hadiza grinned, laughing, patting him on the arm. She murmured something back and Samson watched Cullen go red all the way up to his fuckin’ ears.

            Fucking idiot.

            Samson would have taken Hadiza up on whatever seductive promise she whispered in his ear. Would have taken her by the arm and dragged her back to her chambers so he could hear her keep her promise well past the dinner bell.

            Samson took a deep breath trying to will his cock not to rouse at the thought.

            “How is training treating you?” Cullen asked her. Hadiza snorted, blowing that errant lock of hair from her face.

            “Oh it’s swell, save I can’t seem to get these two spells to work in tandem without sacrificing the strength of one over the other. You’d think this shit would come easy, but no…I’ve drained two lyrium potions for this.” She muttered. Her gaze turned toward Samson.

            “Hey,” she said almost cheerily, “you’ve got a pretty good handle on magic. You have any tips that might uh…make this endeavor less frustrating?” At that, Cullen frowned, shooting Samson a disgusted look and did little to cloak his contempt. Unbelievable. Samson decided he’d had enough, so he shrugged.

            “Well, Inquisitor, you’re overloading your shields,” he began, “when you cast a shield, you’ve only got a limited amount of time before it vanishes. How about you pour more into the lightning first, then boost your shield after. The holes won’t have time to grow otherwise.”

            Cullen’s face was dumbstruck. Samson was inwardly smug. Hadiza, however, looked intrigued. She walked away from the two men and immediately focused. Samson felt the sudden charge in the air, the prickle of her magic along his skin like a march of needle pricks. He saw Cullen tense, and could almost see his fear as he reached for abilities that were no longer available to him. Samson, on the other hand, had no such fear. He kept his abilities within reach, but he knew Hadiza wasn’t at risk of becoming corrupted off of such a simple maneuver.

            Lightning struck, followed by the match strike hiss of her shield being thrown up. Hadiza’s smile was one of wonderment, and she laughed, disbelieving.

            “It worked!” She cried and dropped her shield, turning to jog back toward them, “Samson you’re secretly a genius. Are you sure you were _just_ a Templar?” Her smile was mischievous and Samson shrugged casually, knowing that Cullen was fuming at her familiarity with the supposedly disgraced war criminal.

            “I told you we Templars are well-read,” he told her, a reminder to her, and a deliberate dig at Cullen that he’d not been privy to their private dealings, “we can’t protect mages if we don’t bother to understand how their abilities work.” And he met eyes with Cullen and the man’s gaze was alight with fury, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in a frown.

            “But how did you know…?” Hadiza asked, truly intrigued, “Most Templars don’t even know how we use magic, let alone how we layer our spellcasting.” Samson’s brows went up. Well, now that she was interested he felt liable to indulge her.

            “You tear open the Veil each time you use your abilities,” Samson explained and Hadiza nodded, “which is why mages are vulnerable to corruption. It’s no different than those Fade rifts you’ve been stitching up. When you do continuous casting, you’re keeping the Veil open. The more powerful the spell, the bigger the tear, understand?”

            Cullen narrowed his eyes. Hadiza tapped her lips with an index finger, a sign Samson had come to know as interest.

            “Ah, that would explain why…oh Maker. But that would mean—“ Before she finished the lunch bell rang and she smiled at him, warm and he almost dared to think _inviting._ Cullen took that opportunity to cut in.

            “Inquisitor,” he said and Samson swore the man almost turned up his nose at him as he offered her his arm, “would you care to join me? I believe we may have a lead on those Red Templar camps we discussed earlier.” Samson didn’t miss the dig. He almost wanted to laugh. How fuckin’ Ferelden was he to be pissing on what he claimed as his like on of their damned dogs? Hadiza blinked at him, then smiled.

            “Alright,” she agreed, then as she took the Commander’s arm, she turned her gaze to Samson, “we’ll continue this discussion another time, then. Thank you for your help.” Samson watched her go, didn’t miss how Cullen bent his head to brush his lips along her hair in the gentlest kiss, murmuring something to her that made her laugh, and didn’t miss how he held her just a bit closer.

            Samson felt his blood grow hot. Let him claim this victory, then. Hadiza would send word soon enough.

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art by [greendelle](http://greendelle.tumblr.com/). Thank you so much for this. It's the most beautiful thing ever.

            They had quarreled. Of course they had. Samson could see it on Hadiza’s face from the moment he walked through the door. She was pacing, but it was not her measured gait she used when she was reading and thinking. No, this was the pace of a caged lioness, agitated and indignant.

            “How dare he!” She snapped fiercely, “The absolute gall! To…to try and suggest that…” She couldn’t get the words out so Samson waited, watching her. Her anger was beautiful. She was a storm encased in skin, sterling eyes flashing and crackling with lightning, her hair whipping with each turn of her head, hands moving in angry gestures as she laid out everything that was wrong with Cullen Stanton Rutherford that day.

            And Samson couldn’t help it: he fucking smiled.

            “Trouble in paradise, princess?” He asked, taking too much pleasure in the fact that Cullen was likely setting fire to his own house out of some deep-seated resentment for a perceived slight. Hadiza whirled, the sleeves of her robe billowing out as her blade-edged gaze cut toward him. Samson stared right back, amused. The scrying room had become something of a sanctuary for her, and in some cases, for him. It was a place where he could sit quietly while Hadiza worked tirelessly to complete the project, offering his expertise when she struggled, and easing off when she was focused. Most times they did not speak, having fallen into that strange familiarity of companionship that needed few words.

            “What did you…” She rubbed her temples, “Argh. I cannot deal with him this day. All over a simple spellcasting for fuck’s sake! The man jumps at shadows when I’ve never given him cause to doubt me…why?” Her anger seemed to be spent and she deflated, looking exhausted. Samson sighed, taking an easy lean against the wall.

            “He’s got a right to fear, by my reckoning,” Samson said and held up a hand at Hadiza’s cutting look, “but if he’s taking you to bed every night and still can’t trust you as your entire self, then that’s something he’s going to have to work out.” He could have told her to leave him be. He could have easily said something along the lines of how he’d never make her suppress herself out of fear. Samson could understand Cullen’s fear, given all that the man had been through, but his fear of Hadiza was grossly misguided. She skirted the line at times, but she played it safe. She knew her limits.

            The fact that she revealed that she couldn’t even be herself around Cullen galled him.

            “I…” Hadiza stopped, turned in a circle, throwing up her hands, “I’ve tried to make him see. I’ve tried to…help him understand what I am. But every time I reach for my power I see him flinch. I see his face grow pale. It hurts me, and now he thinks I am delving too deeply in my magic.” She held up her marked hand and Samson got a good look at the Anchor for the first time. It was a wound, of sorts, but instead of blood and gristle, there was the swirling green energy of the Fade. He knew because Corypheus had gone completely batshit when it was taken from him.

            _That_ was an experience he’d rather have forgotten.

            “I walk around with this all the time,” Hadiza said, “it hurts, but I don’t complain. I’ve learned to live with it.”

            “You could always cut off your hand, princess,” Samson joked and she snorted.

            “Don’t be gauche,” she admonished, “I…what happens when I’m done sealing the Rifts? Do I just…live with this piece of the Fade on my body?” Samson shrugged. He couldn’t help her. The only person who _could_ was the one trying to kill her. For a moment, he found an ounce of pity for her. She was truly alone in this, and he regretted for a moment, making his choice.

            But had he not, he’d never have met her to begin with.

            “You do your job, princess,” he laughed, “and then you go home. I don’t think you need me to tell you how fast people forget that you saved their asses from hell on earth. Look at how many wanted the Wardens banished. Just do what needs to be done, and go home and be happy.” Hadiza paused, fixing him with a look that was clearly a mingling of surprise and realization. She looked down at her marked hand again. Then, she sighed.

            “Yeah, I don’t exactly have anywhere to go after this. I can’t go home. Circle mage, remember?” Samson nodded. This was true. He couldn’t see a woman like Hadiza returning to the quiet captivity of a Circle. Not after she was done un-fucking Thedas’ entire existence.

            “Oh!” She said and went to the desk to retrieve something, and Samson stirred, watching her with idle curiosity, “The item is ready and I think I can begin scrying post-haste.” She turned and in her hands was the strangest diadem Samson had ever seen. Not that he’d seen a lot, but it was a strange shape and very ornate. It bore the same severity as Andraste’s crown only its curved edges were lined with draped chains, tiny and delicate…and slightly glowing. Samson realized upon closer inspection that the chains were encased lyrium shards. Hadiza smiled.

            “Scrying crown. Summerstone, pure lyrium crystal, and gold. Dagna crafted it based on the original design in the _Arcanus Apparatus_ ; it is quintessentially Tevene.” She looked please with herself. Samson smirked.

            “Gonna try it on, princess?”

            “Don’t call me that.” She huffed. Samson chuckled.

            “Why not? It suits you. You certainly act like one.” Hadiza sucked in a breath, scrunched her nose, and frowned. Then, her lips twitched, suppressing a smile.

            “Fuckin’ knew it,” Samson laughed, “well, go on. Put the damned thing on.” Hadiza took a deep breath and looped the longest chain around her head. Samson was surprised that the diadem did not so much as go on her head so much as it were fitted to her face. The center settled on her nose, with the middle point following her nose’s bridge, settling the point directly in the middle of her brow, while the other point obscured her mouth. The other two points curved along the sides of her face up to secure on top of her head. It was eerie and strange and completely foreign and yet when he viewed those quicksilver eyes through the strange item on her face, he felt his blood run hotter. She was beautiful, Maker fuck it all. He wanted nothing more than to kiss her until she forgot Cullen was anything but her advisor.

            “How do I look?” She asked and he saw the flash of her smile behind the soft glow of lyrium chains. His cock was half hard from this and he coughed, trying to will it away. He couldn’t fucking think straight. All he saw now was what she might look like in that strange thing on her fucking face and nothing else. Maker’s balls he was willing to bet she moved like music in a man’s arms, writhing and undulating to whatever pounding rhythm he set with his hips.

            “You look strange. How does this thing work?” He managed to grate out. Hadiza shrugged off her robe, revealing the tan blouse and trousers she normally wore.

            “Well, we’re going to start small first. It will allow me to focus, as you said. But…” Samson waited. Hadiza gulped.

            “You know what a Fade-step is?” She asked. Samson nodded. He’d seen it done often enough. A mage only cast that to evade imminent danger. Hadiza puffed out a breath behind her strange crown.

            “It’s kind of like that, apparently. I’ll be half in the Fade, as it’ll allow me to cover more ground efficiently. But…there’s a risk.”

            “Possession.” Samson guessed and she nodded. Samson sighed.

            “Alright, so what do you want me to do while you’re…searching?” He asked. Hadiza bit her lip.

            “Just guard my body. I don’t want to risk losing the Anchor so if I show any signs of turning, then you can smother my magic and me. But try not to kill me, alright?” She gave him a cutting smile again. Samson grunted.

            “Alright, but if I’ve got no choice I’m not gonna risk you going in the Fade and coming out a pride demon. What—or who—are you searching for?” Hadiza knelt in the center of the scrying circle.

            “My sister. I want to see how this feels before we attempt Corypheus.” Hadiza crossed her legs, gesturing for Samson to take up a vigil near her body.

            “If I scry someone and they scry back, the sigils should flare up. The closer they come, the more sigils will burn away. I expect this to happen when I search for Corypheus. But for now, let’s find my sister.” She muttered. Samson watched her closely, felt the prickle of magic on his skin as she sank into her focus. Everything was still in the room, even the flickering flames of torchlight seemed to still themselves as Hadiza’s focus deepened. Samson felt a chill as a frosty mist began rolling along her body, wispy at first, but gradually growing. The crackle of ice forming accompanied the frosty mist. Samson watched her vigilantly, fixated. Her silver irises brightened, growing paler and paler until her eyes were completely white, and then she moved no more.

            She was searching.

            Samson waited with a growing sense of anticipation.

 

* * *

 

            Hadiza felt like she was flying, running, and swimming all in the same turn. When she first sank into her focus, she had not been able to think about anything but the look of slight worry on Samson’s face. He had not argued with her course of action, but she could see he was reluctant in the possibility that her life could be forfeit. Nonetheless, he took up a vigil in front of her while she sank deeper into the winter stillness of her core, ignoring the growing chill and gathering frost on her body. Her eyes were wide but she no longer saw the room. She was racing over mountains, across sea and sky alike, her feet nimble, as if the very wind propelled her.

            This was what scrying was like.

            Samson had been right, of course, as the summerstone served to make her vision clearer, to make it seem as if what she saw was clear and crisp enough to touch. Instead, she turned her mind to focus on one individual: Ariadne. She raced across Orlais, through the Plains and forests, rapid and exhilarating to the point where she was sure if her body could move, she’d be breathless with the rush of adrenaline. The Western Approach was suddenly beneath her ‘feet’, leeched of most of its color, and blurry around the edge where the Fade touched her vision. She focused harder, racing toward Griffon Wing Keep, above the battlements, where she saw Knight-Captain Rylen’s men in the midst of a training exercise. She switched focus, her vision blurring from one face to the next, searching, until she spotted Ariadne in the shadows, a darkling creature who watched the proceedings with a critical eye.

            Hadiza waved but Ariadne could not see her, nor sense her.

            Then, to her surprise, a strong arm caught Ariadne about the waist, turning her. Ariadne’s smile was quick and mischievous, and then she caught a glimpse of a tattooed face bending down to kiss her.

            Hadiza pulled back from her scrying quickly, Thedas blurring around her as she was thrown completely back into her body with a startled and desperate gasp. Samson was there, and he hauled her to her feet as Hadiza struggled to regulate her breathing, frost crackling from her body onto the floor. She blinked, wide eyed and startled, snatching the diadem from her head.

            “You alright there, princess?” Samson asked, trying to calm her, and realized belatedly that he was rubbing her arms to warm her up. Hadiza blinked rapidly.

            “Yes…” She said softly, “I’m…I’m okay. It was just…a lot to take in. A rush. I…” She trailed off when she realized she was practically in Samson’s arms. He was still holding her arms, his grip tight but not painful, and they stared at one another.

            “Are you sure you’re…?” Samson asked softly, too softly. Hadiza felt something stir in her body, something hot and tightly coiled that made her breath short and her knees weak. She couldn’t tear her eyes away and she didn’t want to. All this time she hadn’t noticed that his eyes were hazel, a clear and sharp hazel, hazy with a recent lyrium dosage. Her lips parted and she wanted to speak but the heat in her unfurled and in her idiocy, she leaned up as he came down, and their lips met.

            _Maker!_ Hadiza felt something spear through her body, pinning her soul, felt herself trembling as Samson returned her kiss, firm but sensual. She hadn’t even thought his mouth capable of such sensuality, but here he was, crushing her against his body while she clung to him desperately, kissing him as if she needed the air he breathed. The scrying chamber’s silence was cut up by their panting as they kissed and Samson ran his fingers through her hair, getting a good grip in his fist at the roots. He tipped her head back, and the sound she made when his lips graced the swan arc of her exposed throat sent all the blood straight to his cock. He was throbbing in his breeches as he tasted and savored her skin, breathing in her scent while she cooed and purred.

            And then they stopped, breaking away. Hadiza brought her hand to her mouth.

            “Samson, what are we doing…?” She asked in a frightened whisper. Samson wanted to tell her exactly what they should have been doing. Wanted to tell her how he was going to strip her to the skin and pin her to the wall, or take her across the table in the far corner. Maker but he was hard! He was harder than he’d ever been in a long while and the soft tremble of her full lips did nothing to soothe the ache. He only knew he wanted to be inside her, badly. He wanted to know what other noises of pleasure he could elicite from her.

            Maker, he just wanted _her_.

            “I should go.” She said gently and Samson let her go, watched her slip back into her robe and leave the diadem on her desk, and leave him alone in the room. When she was gone he swore softly under his breath.

            This was the exact kind of trouble he didn’t need, but Andraste preserve him, it was the exact kind of trouble he wanted.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, now there's art. Comment and review if you'd like. :)


	12. Chapter 12

            He shouldn’t have shouted at her.

            In truth, it was his own damned fault, and he knew it. But pride had a way of clamping the mouth shut over words that could fix everything. He had pride in abundance, and so did she, and so when she tossed her head and glared at him, he had stood his ground, standing behind his words.

            And now he was paying for it.

            “Maker, I’m an idiot,” he muttered into the empty quiet of his office. He hadn’t been able to focus since their quarrel, and he knew why. Had he been in the right, he’d be unbothered, and the reports for the day wouldn’t have become a growing pile on his desk as he struggled to focus on the words he scratched on the parchment. He had fought her over her magic…again. They were always fighting about her magic, these days. He felt Hadiza was frivolous with it, and she told him he didn’t understand how magic worked. He recalled that when she asked about how he knew the difference between Templar abilities and a mage’s innate connection to the Fade, he said he just knew it was different, just not why.

            And he saw Hadiza’s face when he said that.

            Then, yesterday, in the garden, when she was practicing her spellcasting, and Samson—Void take that scoundrel!—had to speak up and was surprisingly knowledgeable about mage abilities. It had cut at Cullen’s pride to hear him casually explain to Hadiza how her magic worked, how to spin the spells to conserve her shields while still putting out heavy damage. Hadiza’s eyes had lit up in a way Cullen only ever saw when she was practicing her magic, and her smile came quick, easy, and with a familiarity that made him uncomfortable.

            So when the lunch bell rang, he was all too eager to take her away from the man. He was all too eager to draw her away, back to where he could have her attention for himself. It was so odd, he never felt this way, even in Halamshiral when he was forced to wait and bear the combined and false pleasantries of half a dozen nobles vying for Hadiza’s attention.

            Cullen could stand it all, just not when she and Samson were seen together, with him smiling at her and her…smiling _back_. The emotion welled like some brutal magma in his veins and he was unaware of it until the quill snapped in his grasp. It was spindly and viperous and he saw red every time he was forced to listen to Hadiza’s lovely laugh, elicited by something Samson said.

            _Jealousy_.

            The word was bitter on the tongue, scorching his throat, as he tasted it without ever having spoken it. Cullen could not recall when he’d ever felt true jealousy or envy, and he realized that so long as Samson walked freely, and Hadiza continued to take a personal interest in his well-being, that it would never go away. He had to apologize to her, let her know that she did not deserve his unworthy treatment, let her know he loved her implicitly and that his fear was rooted in something that was not her fault.

            But first, to work.

 

* * *

 

 

            Samson hadn’t had a pleasant dream in a number of years. He could barely remember his dreams, but his nightmares were vivid and clear. However, after that scorched and unexpected moment in the scrying chamber, his dreams began to take on a particular shape.

            _Her_.

            She was as vivid and beautiful as she was in life, and all he remembered was her body against his, her curves as smooth as he imagined, her mouth hot and slick and hungry beneath his own. She tasted of lyrium, honey, and magic. Maker’s breath he had never wanted a woman so badly as he had in that moment, all covered in frost, the melted droplets sparkling in her thick hair like tiny diamonds. Andraste’s flaming sword to run his fingers through it was a dream come true. Samson dreamed of all the ways that moment could have ended, of taking her there on the cold, circumscribed floor, of bringing her to a climax the likes of which he knew she’d never felt. Whatever was between them, he knew she felt it, knew in his marrow that her leaving was not out of shame but surprise.

            He wanted her mouth, wanted her body, wanted everything that comprised her. It was maddening and relentless, running parallel with the unending song of lyrium in his blood. Somehow, Hadiza had gotten under his skin, had crawled into his veins like a heady narcotic, and had ablated the iron of his heart to rust. He should have been rough with her, should have pushed her away, and should have given her a reason to hate him so that he could stop worrying about what would happen when she made a choice— _that_ choice.

            But no, he was fucking over the moon for her. He was jumping in with both eyes open knowing that it could end badly for him, and yet he didn’t care. He just longed for her, and because another man held sway over her affections, he was forced to yearn in silence.

            He knew it wasn’t right. He knew Cullen wasn’t right for her. No man could love a woman like Hadiza unless they loved everything about her without fear. Cullen couldn’t get over that hurdle, and he chose to love the one mage who lived and breathed magic with consummate skill and ease. Had this been Kirkwall, Samson might have stood a chance, back in his days as a Templar of exemplary character. But here, in Skyhold, under the aegis of the Inquisition, he was a disgraced Templar, a disgraced general, and a prisoner. He had nothing to offer Hadiza but himself, and that wasn’t much.

            And yet, and _yet_ …

            Never in his life had Samson accepted chains, imprisonment, or silence. Never had he accepted the status quo. No, the only chains he accepted were the ones strangling his heart, the ones linked to the fingertips of the Inquisitor who had become more than her title to him. He wanted to kneel at her feet, beg her forgiveness, to kiss her fingers under the soft, hazy light of dawn, to see what it looked like when she lay next to him, her bare skin free for him to touch. He remembered her being caught up in his arms, her eyes wide, but she didn’t look away, she didn’t pull away.

            Samson growled in frustration, confined to pining for her at a distance, watching Cullen take her for granted. The man should have been eager for her every waking moment. He should have been insane with what she inspired, should have floated directly into the fucking sky every time she smiled. Samson paced his cell, paced until he could do nothing else. She was driving him mad, and he thought bitterly of the possibility that she had likely run back to Cullen after that kiss.

            He was angry, he was exhilarated, and he was frustrated.

            He was also hopelessly, insanely in love with the woman.

            _Void take you, woman. You’ll be the death of me, yet._

Just when his madness nearly drove him to scream, word came for him.

            Hadiza summoned him to the scrying chamber.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            She was standing by her desk when he arrived, and from her expression, whatever she was about to say likely wasn’t good. The scrying diadem, lovely and severe, was in her right hand, held loosely at her side. She also wore a robe of deep purple. A variation of the Chantry’s symbol was embroidered all over it in soft golden thread.

            “The message sounded urgent,” Samson said, “what happened?” He crossed his arms and Hadiza sighed, looking down at the sigils burned into the floor. She seemed reticent tonight and Samson was not a patient man, despite all that Templar training. If there was something that needed saying, he wanted to hear it.

            “I’m going to try and find Corypheus soon, but…” She stopped herself, “…scrying requires I have an item belonging to the person in question, or something that has been saturated in their essence or humors. I…I have nothing of the sort for him.” Samson narrowed his eyes, a growl in his throat. Hadiza set the diadem down on her desk.

            “Except you.”

            Samson froze, eyes going wide. Hadiza approached him slowly, and her face was torn between regret and sadness. Samson frowned.

            “Hadiza are you suggesting blood magic?” Samson demanded, “You know what could happen if you…if you used it?” Hadiza looked away again, laughing helplessly.

            “What choice do I have? It is your blood Corypheus corrupted. I don’t even need that much; just a few drops to make the connection. Samson, please, you have to trust me. If I don’t find Corypheus, we’re all dead.”

            “And if he finds you, you’ll be dead and we’ll all be dead anyway,” Samson snapped, “Andraste’s flaming sword, Hadiza, I thought you knew your limits!” Hadiza’s eyes flashed dangerously and Samson was surprised how easy it was to reach for the lyrium in his blood by instinct alone. He never had cause to fear her, not even when he faced her in battle, but she was skirting the line of risking more than she was likely willing to give for the sake of something that might not have worked.

            He wouldn’t allow her to put her soul at risk, not even if the world was burning down around their heads.

            “I already consulted with Dorian. He says there’s no risk of corruption.” Hadiza’s gaze softened, and Samson relaxed when the mask of her calm was momentarily fractured by something far deeper.

            “They’re all dead, Samson,” she told him, “they’re all dead and I’m responsible.”

            “Who?” He asked quietly. Hadiza laughed, hysteria blanketing her voice.

            “The fucking Wardens. I made a bad decision and the remaining Wardens in Southern Thedas paid for it with their lives.” Samson understood then, what had driven her to this point. Hadiza turned away.

            “I shouldn’t have sent them to their deaths. I thought Leliana would be prudent given the small numbers. If I’d sent Cullen, maybe he might have been careful with them…” Samson watched her break down, rambling, now, pacing, agitated. She’d gotten her first real taste of the price of being responsible for so many lives and Samson was reminded that she was thrust into this role unwillingly. He wasn’t good with this sort of thing—well that was a lie; how many nights did he sit up with Maddox helping him sort out his lady’s troubles? But this wasn’t the same thing. This was dealing with lives that were needlessly lost because she made a decision to the best of her ability.

            “Hadiza…” Samson began and she stopped mid-sentence to look at him, “…calm down. You made a mistake, and nobody expects you to be perfect unless they’re complete fuckin’ idiots.”

            Hadiza was quiet, and so Samson decided to keep going. Not because of any reason other than to keep her calm, to bring her back down from the high she was climbing, the one that made Cullen fear her. Maker, he could only imagine what the man had to go through in bed if she was like this when upset.

            “You made a decision and lives were lost. No amount of hurting yourself over it is going to bring them back. You push forward and you honor their sacrifice.” Samson wondered, then, if he had done right by the Order by allowing them to fall to the corruption of red lyrium. Could he ever atone for it? There was no amount of atonement to recoup the losses needlessly suffered. No, it was too late for him, he thought.

            But Hadiza’s soul was still clean.

            “What happens if there’s another Blight?” She asked, “What then? Do we kneel and pray for Weißhaupt to send aid?” Samson smiled, closing the distance between them.

            “We’d be kneeling and praying regardless, Hadiza. Right now, worry about Corypheus. We’ll find the bastard, but we’re not going to corrupt your soul to do it.”

            “But I—“ Samson’s expression was hard.

            “ _Hadiza_ ,” he said to her, “you gave me the choice to be the Templar I once was, again. Don’t fuckin’ insult me by doing something that takes that choice from me unwillingly.” Hadiza looked down, her cheeks burning. After a moment, Samson sighed.

            “Look, I know you’re impatient, and you feel cornered, but blood magic is never worth it. It’s one of the only fuckin’ things the Commander and I can agree on. I’ve never met a blood mage that wasn’t crazy in one-way or another. I’m not gonna let you end up that way.” At that, Hadiza smiled, and Samson counted it as a crisis averted. Maker’s fucking breath how did Cullen deal with her when she was upset? Did the man run and hide and pray that Andraste calmed her down?

            “Now dry your eyes, princess,” he told her and she laughed despite herself, “no scrying tonight. You’re…you need to get some sleep.”

            Hadiza glanced back once at the mask on her desk. Then, she turned, leaning up to press a quick kiss to Samson’s cheek.

            “You’re right. Thank you.”

            Samson watched her leave him in the scrying room for a second time, cursing himself as he made his way back to his room.

 

* * *

 

            Cullen was waiting for her when she got back to her quarters. Hadiza’s brows went up when she saw him, looking surprisingly awkward, turning quickly to look at her as she ascended the steps.

            “Hadiza!” He rubbed the back of his neck, “I…I came to…I came to apologize. My behavior was uncalled for, and I should not have doubted you, and I—“ Hadiza held up her hand.

            “Cullen,” she said, “we’re fine. I’m fine. It’s been a long day and I have to…I have been negligent with you regarding your concerns about my magic.” She crossed the room, removing her clothes as she did. She was going to draw a bath, and then she was going to rest and not think about how cool Samson’s skin felt beneath her lips, or how he smelled intoxicating, or how strong his embrace had been, or how that wolfish smile thrilled her to the roots of her hair. She was going to sleep, and if need be, take her ass directly to the Fade.

            “Hadiza,” Cullen’s voice, that soft, soothing baritone, was gentle and concerned, “are you alright? You look…” He approached her and Hadiza vanished into her bathing chamber, which she had painstakingly had renovated and modeled in the Orlesian fashion, but with dwarven plumbing. Cullen stopped in the doorway.

            “I’m fine, Cullen,” Hadiza said irritably, “it’s just been a trying day. I need…” She didn’t know what she needed, but Maker’s breath did she want. She wanted something Cullen could not give her. She knew it down in her bones that even if she begged it of him, Cullen would never be anyone other than what he was. And that made her angry because he was asking without actually asking, that she be only part of herself around him.

            “Is there anything I can do to help?” He asked her as she undressed quickly and efficiently while the bath was drawn. A fire rune was already glowing on the side of the tub. Hadiza paused, looking at him. There was something he could do, she knew, but she’d have to ask it of him.

            _Fuck me_ , she thought, _fuck me until I forget that man’s mouth was ever on mine and how his hands promised me more pleasure than I could ever expect in a single lifetime. Cullen, for Andraste’s sake just fuck me._

But she said nothing of the sort.

            “You can join me, if you like,” she said salaciously. Cullen smirked, and Hadiza felt something flutter in her belly. Maybe he would get the message when she was sliding her soap-slick body against his in the tub. Maybe when her fingers wrapped around his cock and she fitted the blunt tip to her slick entrance he’d understand what she needed right then. Hadiza watched him not unlike a predator watched prey, and she bit her lip as he began the process of removing his armor. When he left to place his armor on the stand, she slipped into the large tub, sighing heavily as the warm water instantly relaxed tired muscles. Cullen soon joined her and she swallowed hard at the side of his naked body.

            “Andraste have mercy,” she muttered, and Cullen smiled coming in behind her. She fit easily between his legs and she leaned back, shutting her eyes.

            “I’m sorry about the news today,” he murmured and Hadiza felt the reverberations of his voice in every part of her. Her cunt practically shivered from the sensation. His head leaned down, and he pressed a kiss to her ear.

            “I know,” she said wearily, “I just…I guess I forgot that there were more lives in my hands than I originally thought.” She adjusted and Cullen began to massage her shoulders.

            “It’s not easy, but…for what it’s worth, you’ve done a splendid job running the Inquisition. I don’t think any of us could have done it better.” Cullen dropped a kiss to her nape, thumbs moving in concentric circles, kneading out the built-up tension between her shoulder blades.

            “Yes…” Hadiza groaned, “but if I hadn’t…mmm…stay there.” Cullen suppressed a laugh and continued.

            “You did what you could with what you had. No one could have foreseen the outcome.” His hands smoothed up her back to massage the sides of her neck. Hadiza let the sensation melt over her for a moment before she regained the energy to speak.

            “What would you have done, had I given the assignment to you instead?” She asked. Cullen paused, thinking a moment as he drew her back against him, his hands settling on her ribs beneath the water, just below her breasts.

            “Mmm,” he mused, “given the small numbers I would have augmented them with my own men. One does not have to be a Grey Warden to kill darkspawn, I believe, just an archdemon.” Hadiza craned her neck to look up at him.

            “That simple?” She asked. Cullen dipped his head, kissed her neck.

            “Nothing’s ever that simple, love. Only on paper. I would have lost much of my men, but possibly spared the Wardens to the point where they could replenish over time.” He explained but Hadiza was no longer listening, having reached down behind her to cup him in her palm. She heard his gasp and grinned.

            “I suppose the talking part is concluded, Inquisitor?” He asked and Hadiza turned in his arms, carefully straddling his lap. Cullen was smiling at her with all the honesty and passion his heart had and Hadiza hated him just a little bit for it.

            “No,” she said, “keep talking.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Biggest most important chapter yet. One ship sinks while another pulls into port. Toot toot, mothafuckas.

            The mornings in Skyhold were always clear and bright, and most of the time, brought with them a renewed sense of purpose and motivation, and mental clarity. Hadiza lay in bed, barely awake, but feeling absolutely unmotivated to leave. She heard the shuffling of papers at her back where her desk was, heard the creak of leather of the high-backed chair, and then she smelled the heady scent of a well-cooked meal. Groaning, she stretched, languorous and reluctant, feeling her spine crack its lower half and adjust, curling her toes into the cool sheets. Then, she sat up. Of course Cullen was already up and dressed, the man couldn’t even be convinced to stay in bed in the mornings for sex save for on the rare occasions she roused before him.

            The thought should have thrilled her. She should have gone to him while he was looking over reports and organizing her messy desk. She should have distracted him, climbing into his lap, reaching between them to—

            The memory came to her in a barrage of sensations. Instead of Cullen it was Samson. She was clinging to him and he was holding her up, his mouth sealed over hers, his tongue in her mouth, his fingers tangled in her damp hair. She took the memory into the realm of fantasy, imagining what hard usage those blade-ready hands promised. Her breasts began to ache at the possibility, her nipples hardening beneath her blouse, and each movement sent a bolt of involuntary desire straight to her cunt, which felt tight and aching, longing to be filled. The thought of that man should not have made her so slick but she felt it, her nether-lips sliding together, knowing what she craved— _whom_ she craved.

            “Hadiza?” Cullen’s voice sounded from the desk and she looked over her shoulder at him. She should have been riding his face, his cock, or his hand…anything. Maker! Maybe if she convinced him to fuck her right there on the desk the desire would abate, but she knew better. She knew herself better than Cullen did. She knew her desires ran deep, and some even dark. She couldn’t coax him to please her in ways that would make him uncomfortable.

            But she could try.

            “I was thinking…” Hadiza murmured, running her fingertips along her waist, “…why don’t you come here?”

            Cullen looked up.

            “You know if I come there I’ll have to…Hadiza!” She took off her blouse, tossed it over to him as she climbed out of bed to stalk toward the desk. Cullen still had his quill in his hand, and was staring at her. Hadiza smirked, making her way between him and her desk.

            “Hadiza, what are you…?”

            “Have you had breakfast yet, Commander?” She asked, and promptly sat on the desk, propping her feet up on the arms of the chair so that her thighs were parted directly in front of him. If there was anything Cullen was good at, it was _this_. Perhaps he could lap the desire from her loins and clear her head. She saw his eyes darken with desire—he was considering it. His gloved hands settled gently on her thighs.

            “I had a light breakfast this morning, Inquisitor,” he replied huskily, “but if you wish to spoil me with sweets…” His head turned, kissing the inside of her knee. Hadiza bit her lip. This was what she liked and Cullen was just getting his mouth on her sex when there was a knock on the bedroom door. A muffled voice called for the Commander.

            _Andraste preserve me, are you fucking serious?_ Hadiza thought angrily as Cullen pulled his mouth away from her cunt, looking up at her apologetically. Hadiza took a deep breath, considered it, then shut her legs.

            “Go handle your duties, Commander. I’ll see you later.” She muttered. Cullen smiled apologetically again and gently untangled himself, pushing the chair back and heading toward the door. By the time he got there his cock would be soft and Hadiza would be too angry to give a shit. She was still wet and aching and throbbing with desire.

            Samson would have finished her off right then and there, duties be damned.

            The thought shocked her into scrambling to get dressed and throwing herself into her work for the day.

  

* * *

  

            He didn’t want to dream about fucking her, so naturally his brain took that as him wanting to dream about fucking her. Samson woke up from the intensely erotic fantasy, painfully hard and throbbing. In this, he was grateful for the privacy. He had no shame taking himself in hand, stroking himself to the thought of Hadiza’s pretty mouth sealed around his cock, those quicksilver eyes filled with tears as she choked him down, or those lovely breasts bouncing in his face as she rode him, or how she might look and sound when he was mouthing her cunt. He had no problem summoning these erotic visions of her sweat-slick skin, her back arched, ass in the air, waiting to receive him. And he knew—he just _knew_ without having to ask, that Hadiza was a woman who loved to be **fucked**.

            By the time he’d gotten to the part of the fantasy where he’d bent her in half, trying to fuck her until she felt him in her damned chest, he came, growling and frustrated, but relieved. Afterward, it was only a matter of cleaning himself up and freshening up for the day. His workload was relatively light compared to most days, and with his focus he managed to finish inventory and tending to the mounts in almost half the time as before. He’d just had a lyrium dosage, which took the edge off, and even though he knew the red lyrium was encroaching slowly, he _felt_ healthier than he had in months.

            When he spotted Hadiza on the battlements he hid a smile. The woman looked beautiful in sunlight, as if she were born in it, the wind in her hair, and a smile on her face. She looked like hope made flesh and Samson sighed remembering how he’d envisioned her just this morning.

            “I’d keep my eyes on the ground if I were you,” Master Dennet’s voice cut into the moment with all the subtlety of a warhammer, “she spared your life, but I wouldn’t look for much more than that.” Samson smirked, self-assured in the knowledge that Master Dennet had no idea just what the Inquisitor was like behind closed doors.

            “A man can’t look at a beautiful woman, now?” He asked in mock indignation, “Gonna bind my eyes up and clap me in chains for admiring the woman who bested me in a duel?” At that, Master Dennet snorted.

            “If it’ll get you to focus on the task at hand, I may just request it.” The old man grinned and Samson chuckled. When he looked back up at the battlements, Hadiza was gone.

  

* * *

 

           

            “Hadiza what the fuck were you thinking?” Aja hissed half from laughter and the other half from disbelief. The two women sat on her bed, having been freshly bathed from a recent spar and Aja had a lap full of shirts. Hadiza glanced down.

            “Blackwall’s?” She inquired, when Aja nodded, reaching for the small sewing kit she kept on hand, Hadiza sighed, “I don’t know. I was a wreck when I asked him. After the news I got during my war council I just…I got desperate. I just want to finish this bullshit with Corypheus and move on with my life.”

            Aja was busy with a seam ripper, idly tearing the seams around the waist of the shirt, and she smiled to herself at Hadiza’s lament.

            “And he wouldn’t let you use his blood to scry with? Even just a few drops?” Aja asked. Hadiza shook her head.

            “It’s…he said…he said he’s never known a blood mage who didn’t go crazy and he didn’t want to see me end up like that. Told me he didn’t want me corrupting my soul for this.” At that, Aja looked up, one brow perked in obvious curiosity. Hadiza leaned back, grabbing one of the decorative embroidered pillows to pick at. Aja inspected her handiwork and took up the needle and thread, beginning to sew.

            “So you like him.” Aja said bluntly and Hadiza blanched.

            “What? Aja, what? No, I just…I wasn’t expecting him to take my well-being into consideration is all.” She muttered. Aja snorted.

            “And he likes you.” She continued as if Hadiza hadn’t thrown up a transparent denial of such a fact. Hadiza’s cheeks were on fire, remembering the kiss, the way Samson held her steady, fingers in her hair, pulling her head back to kiss along her throat.

            “I…I suppose,” she hazarded slowly, “but I did spare his life and offer him a chance at redeeming himself.” At that, Aja made a hissing sound by sucking on her teeth. It was a Rivaini habit, and their mother may have been an imperious noblewoman, but her Rivaini mannerisms never truly left her. It was the universal sign of someone sensing the most high-end bullshit.

            “I’ve seen the way he looks at you, sometimes, when we’re out in the training yard,” Aja said with a laugh, “I doubt that’s the kind of look one gives to their savior. Definitely looked at you like he wanted to devour you whole.”

            “Aja, please!” Aja stitched a seam with ruthless efficiency, shrugging her shoulders with a grin.

            “I call it like I see it, Diza. The man is besotted,” she set down the shirt, fixing her sister with a knowing look, “and I think, on some level, so are you. I hope you’re not falling for him out of pity.”

            “No.” Hadiza said quickly, and then swore softly at Aja’s smug smirk, “Damnit, Aja. No, it’s not pity. It’s…it’s complicated. I don’t even know if there is anything there to consider. He’s…he’s been through a lot.” Hadiza looked down, suddenly ashamed. Her sister would take their secrets to the grave if need be, but it didn’t do much to alleviate the guilt.

            “And Cullen?” Aja asked the question that one should not have asked and Hadiza looked up sharply, meeting her sister’s steady gaze. She swallowed hard.

            “I love him, Aja,” she whispered, “I love Cullen dearly…but I’m…” She wouldn’t say it. Aja wouldn’t either. It was something Hadiza would have to admit on her own with no one to hold her hand. If she didn’t, she’d make herself miserable or break two hearts. Aja watched her with the same quiet gravity that seemed to be a trait in all three of the Trevelyan sisters.

            “I love him, but…” Hadiza felt tears blur her vision as it dawned on her what she was about to say, “…When I’m with him, I’m content, I’m happy. I feel safe and he’s steady and honest. Maker! He’s so tender with me and just…but I can’t be myself with him. Not the mage part of me, anyway. He doesn’t get excited when I discuss magical theories. He flinches when I charge a spell. Aja, I love him but I’m not _in_ love with him.”

            The words eddied in the air, dropping like a guillotine. Aja tilted her head.

            “And Samson?”

            Hadiza felt something swell in her chest at the sound of his name and all the words she might have said bottled up in her throat.

            “I see,” Aja said with a wry smile, “you haven’t fucked him, have you?”

            “Aja! I’ve more propriety than that! Maker’s sodding breath!” Hadiza’s anger momentarily flared then died.

            “No, we haven’t done anything inappropriate.” Hadiza purposely neglected to mention the kiss; she had enough stress, “But when I’m with him and we’re poring over books and scrolls I feel…giddy. When I’m scrying and he’s standing watch over me, I feel safer than I ever have in my entire life. He’s honest too, in a way that Cullen isn’t, and he doesn’t mind my magic, Aja. In fact, he enjoys it.”

            Aja made a noise of agreement and returned to her sewing. Hadiza sighed. Now that she’d put the nail in the coffin of her relationship with Cullen, she was at a crossroads.

            “What do I do? Andraste preserve me I tried to fuck Cullen this morning and we were interrupted. But the whole time I was thinking of how Samson wouldn’t have cared. Aja, I’m…what the fuck is wrong with me?” Hadiza was distressed clearly, but Aja erupted into peals of laughter. Hadiza chucked the pillow at her sister, which made the woman laugh harder.

            “So you’re in love, Hadiza, so what? Break it off with Cullen. Tell him that you don’t feel like the relationship you have is healthy or…” Aja finished off her stitching and cut the thread with a pair of sewing shears, “…stop spending so much time with Samson and forget about him.”

            “I can’t!” Hadiza whined, falling onto her back with a growl.

            “Then do the first thing I mentioned. Cullen’s a good man, Hadiza, he at least deserves the truth.”

            “He’s going to hate me.” Hadiza mumbled from beneath a pillow, “He’s going to hate me for the rest of his and my natural life. Why did Samson have to be so…?”

            “Intriguing? Smart? Sympathetic? Hadiza I don’t think we choose who we fall for anymore than we can choose what kind of weather we want. You and Cullen have a good thing, but he isn’t making you burn up in the morning with the desire to sit on his cock.”

            “Aja!”

            “I’m serious. When’s the last time the two of you fucked clear through the afternoon?”

            Hadiza was silent. Cullen had too much work to even take on such a task. They’d had sex in the mornings, to be sure, but Cullen had a keen sense of duty and didn’t stay in bed longer than the breakfast dismissal bell.

            “Uh huh.” Aja said triumphantly, taking up the seam ripper again and beginning on the next shirt, “And when’s the last time you fantasized about Cullen fucking you blind?”

            Hadiza made a noise that could be taken as a growl of annoyance.

            “And Samson?”

            Hadiza rolled over onto her stomach and let out a muffled scream beneath the pillow and into her mattress.

            “So Samson gets you hot no matter what, and he’s actually taken an interest in you…the real you. I don’t see why you’re agonizing. Cullen will recover from heartbreak, but you owe him the truth. Don’t go sneaking off to the scrying room kissing ex-Templars.”

            Hadiza rolled back over, took the pillow off her face, and glared at her sister. Aja looked supremely unbothered and continued to rip the seam of the shirt she was working on.

            “What about Blackwall?” Hadiza asked with a heavy sigh, “Are you in love with him?”

            “No.” Aja said calmly, “But that’s not why he and I are together. I love him, and he loves me, but we’ve lived too much life to get all moon-eyed over one another. It’s a nice, calm, trouble-free relationship.” Hadiza narrowed her eyes.

            “No need to rub it in or anything,” she grumbled and Aja smirked, smug and superior as she took up the needle and thread once more, “I just wish it had been someone like…Iron Bull…or fucking Leliana…or someone that isn’t supposed to be my fucking prisoner.” She let out that exasperated noise again and Aja shook her head, laughing.

            “When do you plan on telling Samson how you feel about him?” Aja asked softly. Hadiza made a small sound in her throat.

            “I don’t. I mean…I will…but…Maker, this isn’t appropriate. I have too much power over him. It’ll look like I’m taking advantage of a prisoner. I don’t even know how long of a sentence he should serve to be considered eligible for freedom.” Hadiza sighed again, and put the pillow back on her face.

            “Why not free him officially after one year?” Aja suggested, “Then have him continue to atone by doing service for those he hurt? The families of the Templars that were lost to red lyrium corruption should be compensated, and much of Ferelden and Orlais require reconstruction from being overrun with the stuff. Why not have him participate in that when this war is over?” Hadiza took the pillow from her face and looked at her sister.

            “You know, that’s not half-bad. Rather brilliant, actually. Would you like to be the Inquisitor, now? Please say ‘yes.’” At that, Aja’s lips quirked and she pointed to Hadiza’s left hand.

            “Sorry,” she said glibly, “I’m not the chosen one or Herald of Andraste or what have you. I’m just the Inquisitor’s younger sister. Aside, you’re the one that’s falling in love with the man. Though he’s not as pretty as Cullen. I didn’t take you for the dark and burned out type, Diza.”

            “He’s…he’s got a certain something about him,” Hadiza said lazily, waving her hand in a dismissive manner, “I’ve never had a preference for looks but Samson isn’t so hard on the eyes. He’s just sick is all, and I’m going to help him get better.”

            Aja was very quiet in that moment, and she paused to look at her sister’s face so suffused with hope that she didn’t bother to ask about how she planned to stop the red lyrium corruption from eventually claiming his life.

            “So when do we scry for Corypheus?” She asked instead. Hadiza sighed.

            “As soon as Dorian finishes the preparations of the potion, and Samson gives me a piece of himself.”

            “I’m sure there’s a piece of himself he’s been dying to give you.” Aja said smoothly.

            “No, just hai—Aja!”

            “What? Am I lying?” Aja smirked.

            “You’re incorrigible.”

            Aja chuckled and returned to her sewing as the sun crawled across the large bedchamber.

            “I hear that.” She murmured, shearing off the loose thread of another stitch.

 

* * *

  

            They made the attempt that evening.

            Dorian, being the gentleman that he was, had managed to whip up the potion that would allow Hadiza to scry beyond what was the usual. When they gathered in the scrying chamber, Hadiza was already waiting for them. Samson leaned against the wall near the table normally reserved for study and meals, and Hadiza was standing by her writing desk, fiddling with the scrying diadem. Dorian seemed to be the only one that was relatively relaxed.

            “You’d think someone died the way you two look, Inquisitor,” he said smoothly, “cheer up.”

            “Yes,” Samson said with a slight sneer, “ ‘cheer up.’ We’re only about to attempt to search for an ancient darkspawn Tevinter magister who will flay her mind if he catches her.” Dorian smirked.

            “Just a typical day for our young Lady Trevelyan, then,” he replied, then produced the vial, “there you go, one _liquidus vivendi_ for your scrying pleasure, complete with the hair plucked from one disgraced general’s head…for flavor, of course.” Hadiza took the vial, which was warm from Dorian’s hand. His expression turned grave.

            “I must warn you, that once you open up this door, it will be hard to close, and when you scry for Corypheus, it will be easier for him to reach back,” Dorian murmured, “if he does, I _will_ tell Samson to drop the hammer to the anvil and sever the connection, but that risks knocking you into the Fade. So be. Careful.” He gripped her shoulders, gave them a light squeeze, and then grinned, his smile cutting through his brown face like a blade.

            “Have fun.” He said and then strode off to take his place across the room.

            Hadiza stood alone, her scrying diadem in one hand, the potion in another. She took a deep breath and opted to take the potion first, to give it time to settle into her blood. She carefully uncorked the tincture, wrinkling her nose at the bitter smell. Swearing under her breath, she pinched her nose and tossed it back, grimacing slightly at the strength of the bitterness.

            _How fitting for the situation_. She thought, and then slowly placed the diadem on her head and face, walking toward the center of the scrying circle. She knelt, the stones cold beneath her knees, but she was a practiced woman in the art of meditation; the discomfort would pass to numbness the deeper she sank into her focus.

            Samson took up his post directly in front of her and she was reminded that this was not unlike a Harrowing back at the Circle. The Templar assigned to strike the killing blow was usually positioned aft of the mage, allowing the execution to be swift and free of hesitation or doubt. Samson deliberately took up the fore because he…Hadiza shook her head, the lyrium chains tinkling. She couldn’t think about that, now. She had to concentrate. So she shut her eyes and cleared her head.

            The potion settled in her body, its bitterness coursing through her veins like lyrium, only it did not sing the crystal blue song. It was silent and dour, but it was potent, and when Hadiza opened her eyes again, the scrying chamber was gone. There was only Thedas, and innumerable threads of life for her to latch onto. She focused, honed in on her own memories of Corypheus, on the thread of essence that she had in her blood, and began to travel. Thedas rushed by, rapidly but vivid in the same sense of the Fade when one passed into it. The edges of the world were blurred like wet paint on a canvas in a strong wind, smearing colors together but allowing her to increase her focus.

            Maker she was fast!

            She flew over Thedas like a wraith, barely skimming mountaintops. So many life threads! The _liquidus vivendi_ was potent even without the use of blood magic, and Hadiza paused, trying to find the one that belonged to the magister.

            Of course, she found it, but it was not the vibrant red of the other lives in Thedas, spindly and serpentine. No, his was a black thread, sharp around its edges, tucked away amidst a sea of red. To her surprise, it was in the southern Frostbacks, near where Haven used to be. Hadiza reached for it, and there was a rush as she was suddenly groundside, and there were faces all around her. Red Templars, she realized, seeing the corrupted lyrium protruding from their bodies, while others were completely obscured by their helmets.

            She followed the black thread slowly; careful not to latch onto it, but touch it just enough to see it leading into one of the many abandoned mine shafts. It took her to an ancient room, which had clearly once been apart of the Temple of Sacred Ashes, and of course, she should not have been surprised that the ancient magister bestowed himself like a king amongst his Venatori and Red Templar supplicants. His back was to her, so she crouched in the shadows as he spoke, trying to catch wind of his conversation with his agents.

            “— _the sacrifices must not be tarnished ere I reclaim what was stolen from me._ ” His voice reverberated along the thread that was his life force. Hadiza wished she could cut it and end him right there. She knew she had to face him again.

            “ _As you will, master,_ ” one of the Venatori responded from an obeisant kneel, “ _shall we begin the ritual now_?” Corypheus was quiet, and then he began to turn. Hadiza felt her blood run cold as she caught a glimpse of his twisted profile.

            “ _No_ ,” he said slowly, “ _’Twould be best to wait for the blood moon to rise tomorrow evening. That is unless…_ ” He turned fully, his eyes staring into the darkness where she hid. Hadiza let go of the thread cautiously, prayed for a miracle, and held her breath.

            “ _Are you ready to face your final hour, Herald?_ ”

            Shit.

 

* * *

 

 

            Samson had been in Kirkwall when things started to really go downhill after Meredith took over. He’d seen the rise of panic in the mages as Meredith’s policies and tactics grew increasingly more brutal, and had argued with Cullen over it. He’d tried to help those he could when he could, and in their desperation, most mages who escaped the Circle or were hidden turned to blood magic.

            He’d been there when everything in Kirkwall came to a head, first during the Qunari invasion and then during the wake of the Chantry being blown up by an angry and crazed apostate. He was prepared through decades of training and experience to handle troubled mages and other enemies and with the lyrium song renewed and strong in his veins, he was prepared to reach for his abilities if need be.

            So when Hadiza began to move while in the midst of a scrying, he knew something had gone wrong.

            “Um…isn’t she supposed to be sitting still?” Aja asked as Hadiza’s head turned, slow and methodical.

            “That’s generally the best way to scry,” Dorian said, then frowned as one of the sigils flared up, “shit. Shit! Samson, I think she’s been spotted. Corypheus must be trying to burn away her wards.”

            Samson didn’t need to be told what would happen if the wards were burned away and Hadiza was being controlled by the magister. He’d seen it happen to mages who were careless around him while in the darkspawn’s service. Without thinking he reached for Silence, and before he could cast it, Hadiza was on her feet.

            “You **dare**?” She asked but it wasn’t her voice that came out of her mouth, it was Corypheus’ and Aja was already unsheathing her blade as Dorian readied a shield around them both. Hadiza’s face was contorted in a rictus of preternatural rage, cheeks unnaturally hollowed, her eyes still white, but there was an encroaching blackness in them, as Corypheus’ hold on her mind grew stronger.

            “You,” she pointed at Samson, “you to whom I gave new life! Is this how you repay me?”

            Samson narrowed his eyes. He wouldn’t cut Hadiza down; not yet. He’d promised her he’d keep her alive if he could.

            “Samson, any time now,” Dorian said nervously as another sigil burned away. Samson was waiting, however, because he knew what he was about.

            “Enslaving me to your cause wasn’t new life, Corypheus,” Samson sneered, “and she’ll stop you. You’re running out of options and you’re scared. She’ll stop you, you son of a bitch. And I hope I live to see the look on your face when she does.”

            Corypheus/Hadiza whipped around, reaching for a spell that was not available to her. In frustration, she attacked Samson, and that’s when he reached for the lyrium in his blood. All of it.

            And brought the fist of a Holy Smite down on the entire room.

            He heard Dorian choke and gasp as his mana was drained away, dropping to his knees while Aja tried to help him, looking slightly sick herself. Hadiza collapsed on the floor, and every torch in the room was snuffed out as the magic in the room burned away in the wake of his smite.

            The silence that came in its wake was heavy with a warbling anticipation.

            “Any survivors?” Samson asked as he gingerly turned Hadiza’s limp form over, and scooped her into his arms. He took the diadem from her face, and leaned down. He could feel it; faint little puffs of breath. She was alive, then, but her mana was drained, and so was the lyrium in his system.

            “She alive?” Aja asked, supporting Dorian effortlessly. Samson nodded.

            “We should get her to her chambers. She’ll be up soon, and I think she’ll feel better waking up in the comfort of her own room.” Dorian suggested. Samson nodded and they set out, leaving the scrying chamber behind them. Samson only hoped it was for good.

 

* * *

 

 

            It was just past dawn when they got to her room, and it was shocking to realize how much time had passed.

“The absolute decadence! The opulence! Truly the mark of a woman used to sitting in the lap of luxury! I adore it.” Dorian exclaimed and Aja nudged him in the ribs as she helped him sit on the couch. Samson had to admit he was a bit awestruck himself. He never thought he’d breech her bedchamber, and when he _did_ entertain the fantasy, it wasn’t with her unconscious in his arms. He lay her down against the bed, making sure she was comfortable, and then he waited.

            It didn’t take long for the gossip to spread. There was nothing for it; they had to pass through the main hall to get to Hadiza’s bedchamber, and no few nobles saw Samson carrying the woman upstairs to her inner sanctum.

            And it didn’t take long for someone to drop the word within earshot of Commander Cullen. When he heard, his face was stoic, but as he strode off the practice field, leaving the soldiers under the watch of his lieutenants, he became increasingly more furious. He did not greet anyone as he stalked by, a lion truly, and had he a tail it would be twitching with his anger.

            He didn’t bother to knock, skipping entire steps as he made his way to Hadiza’s bedchamber, bursting through the door only to find Samson standing in the room, with Hadiza unconscious on her bed. Aja and Dorian were seated on the couch.

            “Ah shit.” Aja muttered and before anyone could react, Cullen crossed the room. Samson barely registered the reaction, tired as he was, as Cullen’s fist cracked across his face.

            “Ah _shit_.” Aja said again and got up. “Cullen! Oy! Commander! Hey stop!” Cullen was practically on top of Samson, fists flying, and Samson wasn’t defending himself, but he did get his hits in before Aja roared and pulled Cullen back. Without thinking, Cullen reacted, turning and striking her across the face. Aja stumbled, but Samson saw the opportunity and climbed to his feet. Aja returned the hit with one of her own, a strike fueled mildly by Reaver rage, and Cullen felt the hit clear through his brain.

            “You can wail on Samson all you like, _Commander_ ,” Aja snarled, “but if you _ever_ hit me again outside of the practice ring I will nail your fucking head to my sister’s door!”

            “Can we just…?” Dorian was about to ask everyone to calm down when Hadiza sat up, groaning. Cullen, Samson, and Aja turned as one.

            “What is going on in here?” She demanded and worked to climb out of bed. Samson caught her when she stumbled, and she smiled at him, and then grimaced, seeing the blood around his nose.

            “Samson what…? Did I…?”

            “Hadiza.” Cullen’s voice cut through her concern as she turned to him. Then, she put the pieces together.

            “You should probably explain why he’s in your bedchamber this early in the morning, Inquisitor.” Cullen said harshly. Hadiza swallowed, and turned to face him. Cullen’s glare was more than she could bear at the moment.

            “I found Corypheus.” She said simply. Cullen’s eyes went wide. He had been prepared for everything but that.

            “You what?” Cullen asked. Hadiza smiled, spreading her trembling hands, but Samson swore he was the only one that saw them shake.

            “I found Corypheus, and Samson helped me track him down.” Cullen looked from her to Samson. Hadiza reached into the pocket of her robe, handing Samson the monogrammed handkerchief for his nose. He blinked as she dabbed at the blood and Cullen growled.

            “He’s our prisoner, Hadiza, and a threat to your life, why would you…?” Cullen was frustrated. He saw how tender she was with him, saw the look Samson gave her when she handed him the handkerchief.

            “He also saved my life, Cullen. Had he not, Corypheus would be standing in my place.” She snapped at him. Aja rubbed her jaw, which was already bruising.

            “She didn’t want to tell you because she knew you’d lose your shit over it. She’s been searching for Corypheus all this time. Samson was there as a failsafe in case the magic backfired.”

            Cullen wanted to explode but instead he swallowed. Sensing this, Hadiza sighed.

            “Could you all excuse us? I wish to speak with him alone.” Samson frowned, but complied, following Aja and Dorian out of the room. As soon as they left, Cullen turned on her.

            “You couldn’t even trust me.” He said quietly. Hadiza bit her lip, looking away. Cullen clenched his hands into fists.

            “Hadiza, why? I would have…I would have…”

            “You would have stopped me, Cullen,” she said to him, “or tried to. The magic I used was dangerous, and without Dorian’s help and expertise I might have died in the attempt. Samson still has his Templar abilities, he was the only one I could trust to strike me down if…if I…”

            “Don’t say it.” Cullen said harshly. Hadiza pursed her lips.

            “See? That’s it, right there. Why I didn’t tell you. I can’t even breathe the word without you getting skittish, Cullen. I needed someone who was sure they could strike me down. I needed someone who wasn’t afraid of me.”

            Cullen glanced up at her sharply, eyes wide. His mouth opened and then closed. Hadiza laughed mirthlessly, running her fingers through her hair.

            “Cullen, I haven’t been able to truly be myself with you, and I’m so tired. I have tried to…downplay my being a mage around you because I know how uncomfortable it makes you but I can’t do this anymore.”

            Cullen’s face went ashen.

            “What are you saying? You would cast me aside for him?” He asked quietly. Hadiza gasped.

            “What? No! I’m not casting you aside for anyone. I’m…Cullen you are no longer bound by the Order or the Circle, just as the Circle or the Chantry no longer binds me. I have to be able to use my magic freely without fear of setting you off. And until you heal whatever soul-wounds you sustained, I can’t do that.”

            Cullen couldn’t believe what he was hearing. His mind fair reeled at the revelation.

            “Hadiza, I…” He searched desperately for words now that he needed them most. He was losing her, he was losing her because of his fear, and it didn’t help because his fear only grew.

            “I asked you, once,” Hadiza said softly, “if you could ever come to care for a mage. For me. Because that’s what I am, Cullen. I am a mage, and there is no amount of suppression that will divorce that from my identity.”

            Cullen swallowed hard.

            “I love you, Hadiza. Maker I love you unlike anything else in this world. I just…I just worry for you.” Hadiza crossed her arms as he spoke, taking a deep breath.

            “Worry for me? Or worry that I may one day give way to corruption? Cullen, Corypheus almost possessed me just this past evening. Samson smote me without hesitation. And had I become truly possessed, he would have killed me. Could you have done the same?” Cullen’s expression was hard at the mention of the man, and it left a bad taste in his mouth to digest the words.

            “Samson doesn’t _love_ you, Hadiza.”

            Hadiza was quiet. Cullen felt sick, and perhaps this was what it meant to be heartbroken.

            “Maker’s breath…” He whispered, glancing toward the stairwell that led to her bedroom door, then back at Hadiza, “…he does, doesn’t he? He…have you…Hadiza you didn’t…”

            “No. Andraste’s flaming sword, don’t insult me. I would never think to do that to you, Cullen.” Hadiza said gently, “But he was willing to strike me down despite his feelings and you couldn’t even answer me when I asked if you would do the same. Cullen you can’t let your love for me supersede our mission.”

            “I’m not!” Cullen snapped, “You were experimenting with dangerous magic and you trusted a disgraced war criminal over your own…over _me_. Hadiza do you…do you love me at all?” There it was, then. The question she was able to answer when her sister asked, but now, seeing Cullen’s broken expression, frightened that he was losing the only woman that ever truly mattered to him in so long, she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

            “I love you, Cullen,” she breathed, “but I love me, more. If I cannot be the whole of what I am with you, then how is that fair to either of us? How is that fair to me that I must take small breaths and you be allowed to breathe deeply and freely?”

            Cullen was quiet, thinking of all the times he’d seen Hadiza using her magic in the most mundane ways, and her look of joy when Samson explained theories to her while she practiced, and how inwardly he flinched each time she raised her hand to cast a spell. Then he remembered how she would catch herself in the midst of a spellcasting, see him, and stop, looking somewhat chastened. She was right—Maker she was right—he had been stifling her with his fear, and that had driven her elsewhere for comfort.

            “So what do we do, now?” He asked her. Hadiza sighed.

            “You need to heal, Cullen. But until you can breathe comfortably around me in the midst of a spellcasting, it’s not healthy for us to be together…not as more than friends and colleagues, at least.”

            Cullen swallowed against a lump in his throat, and drew himself up.

            “I understand, Inquisitor,” he said, and for some reason his use of her title hurt worse than any curse he could hurl at her; she wished he were angry and shouting, that she could handle, but this business of shutting down and shutting her out was worse.

            “Is there anything else?” He asked her. Hadiza was quiet for a moment, and the light in the room felt and looked completely different in the wake of their private war.

            “No, Commander,” she said hollowly, “there isn’t.”

            “Then I shall take my leave,” he bowed stiffly, she swallowed hard, “good day, Inquisitor.” And when he turned to leave she counted his footsteps against the rhythm of her heartbeats, listened to the door to her bedchamber open and then close with all the finality of a music box being shut.

            Alone in her bedchamber, standing in a shaft of sunlight, Hadiza dropped to her knees, and wept.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting down to the wire, folks.

            It was said that for every heart there was its intended soul mate and its ill-fated thorn. Hadiza wondered, looking out from her balcony facing the mountain peaks, which she had been to Cullen, and what Cullen and Samson were to her. She had never been the center of attention in this manner, and she had no other women with which to compare notes. She wondered which thread tied her seemingly inextricably to these two men, so alike in their ideals, and yet one man’s ideals were tarnished by trauma while other man’s ideals were painted over with the perfect whiteness of despair.

            The sun was beginning to set when Josephine came for her.

            “Inquisitor?” Her voice, which normally carried like a sweet note that could melt a heart of stone, sounded small in the vastness of the bedchamber. Hadiza didn’t move, and did not look over her shoulder to speak.

            “Just Hadiza in here, Lady Montilyet,” she said with a heavy sigh that put a slump in her shoulders, “just me.” Josephine’s brows knit in genuine concern and she made her way to Hadiza’s side, standing with her hands clasped, looking so much like the nobility she was born to. Hadiza did not look at her.

            “We…we received word that you found Corypheus,” Josephine said carefully, “the Commander proposed we convene in the war room this evening to discuss a plan of action.” At that, Hadiza hazarded a slow glance toward Josephine and the ambassador saw the weariness in her expression. Josephine’s lips turned down in a slight frown of concern, and Hadiza turned her gaze back to the mountains which were now stained in burnished gold and orange by the approaching sunset.

            “Very well,” she said dully, “I suppose it can’t wait, can it?” She smiled, the corners of her lips trembling with the effort. Josephine didn’t have the steel to pull Hadiza out of melancholy.

            “No,” she said sadly, “I’m afraid it can’t.”

 

 

 

 

            The war room was colder, in the wake of all that happened. Hadiza herself had not bothered to change out of her mage robes, and filed in behind Josephine, looking as weary as before. She stifled a yawn behind her hand, and did not even spare a glance at Cullen. Very well, for he kept his face perfectly expressionless. Morrigan had returned from her mysterious errand after two months abroad, and looked smug.

            “You found what you were looking for, then?” Hadiza asked her and Morrigan’s smile was slow and sly, her head tilting slightly.

            “Yes,” her voice was sultry, like rubbing rich velvet on the senses, “I _can_ match Corypheus’ dragon. The rest is up to you, Inquisitor.” Hadiza gave that smile again, but with less trembling. Inquisitor. Right, that was she, wasn’t it? In this room she was merely the Inquisitor.

            Not the woman who had broken Cullen Rutherford’s heart.

            “Good, because Corypheus is going to be doing something at the Temple of Sacred Ashes tomorrow at moonrise and I’d rather he not succeed.” She finally opted to glance around the room at each of the advisors in turn.

            “Most of our forces are still in the Arbor Wilds,” Cullen said neutrally, “the bulk of them won’t be able to make it here in time to march. If Corypheus intends to do anything, he’ll have the advantage.”

            Hadiza blinked, slow and methodical.

            “No, I don’t think so,” she said quietly, “I don’t think this confrontation will be one of two armies meeting on the battlefield.”

            “Inquisitor,” Leliana said, “you can’t mean to face Corypheus alone. That would be suicide.” Josephine said nothing. Tactics in battle and strategy were not her strong suit, but she saw what was happening and wanted to say something.

            “Inquisitor, I know you’re…exhausted.” She said, “The search for Corypheus taxed your strength considerably. Perhaps you should get some rest and we shall reconvene in the morning to plan a strategy with clearer heads.” At that, Cullen frowned.

            “The time for planning is long past, Lady Josephine,” he said, “if we wait any longer, we’ll lose what little tactical advantage we have.” Hadiza met his gaze sharply, eyes flashing briefly at the sentiment. Cullen’s face was completely expressionless, but his eyes narrowed slightly and Hadiza tore her gaze away.

            “He’s right.” She said smoothly, “I should likely assemble my team and head there right now. If I can beat Corypheus before he…does whatever he does, then I’ll have served my true purpose, yes?”

            “And if you die before you have a chance to strike,” Leliana said a little forcefully, “then your sacrifice will have been for nothing.”

            Hadiza threw up her hands, exasperated with everything. _Everything_.

            “Then **what** ,” she stressed the word with a snap to her tone, “would you all have me do? I either die tonight or I die tomorrow night, it matters precious little to my nemesis or me. We must face each other all the same. I am the only tactical advantage left. So, advisors, fucking _advise_ me.”

            There was no answer. Hadiza sighed.

            “Corypheus mentioned a sacrifice being done at moonrise tomorrow,” she said, “he will not be prepared for me to stop him, and he doesn’t know that we’ve a match for his dragon. This will make the fight somewhat easier. I’ll assemble my team, and we’ll make for the Temple of Sacred Ashes tomorrow. Questions?”

            Of that, there were none. Hadiza pinched the bridge of her nose.

            “Then we’re adjourned. Make your final preparations. We’ll convene in the morning to finalize everything.” The advisors filed out, Morrigan first, then Leliana, and then Josephine.

            Cullen lingered. Hadiza was looking over the map, already plotting a route through Ferelden…as he’d taught her.

            “Hadiza,” Cullen’s voice was soft, but there was steel in his tone beneath the gentility, “I…”

            “We’ve much work to do, Commander,” Hadiza said decisively, her tone sharp, “and your tactical advantage needs rest, as do you.” Cullen came up short, cheeks going red. He bowed stiffly.

            “As you will, Inquisitor.” He said coolly, and then left her alone in the war room. For some reason, that rankled her nerves, and she turned, waiting for the amount of time it would take him to leave so she didn’t have to cross paths with him, and then she left too.

 

 

 

            Samson hadn’t seen her for hours, and hadn’t received any word. The dinner bell had rung scant minutes ago, and he had been pacing his cell, wondering, waiting, and actually fucking _worried_. He shouldn’t have left her alone with Cullen; the man was wroth with her and outright despised Samson, and as strong as Hadiza was, Samson knew that beneath that armor was a soft and compassionate heart. Cullen was always ruthless when it came to his own back in Kirkwall. He roughed up recruits if they stepped out of line, and turned a blind eye to the abuses going on right in front of him. To Samson, Cullen was as much a disgrace to the Order as he was. Samson may have fed the remaining Templars red lyrium but Cullen did more damage in Kirkwall on the blue than Samson ever could on the red.

            And Hadiza was a brilliant mage, willing to push her limits for the mission. She understood what it took to win if need be, and Samson did too. Had it come to it, he would have struck her down in a quick and decisive blow. Not out of any sense of duty, either. But because he—

            The door to his cell opened, and a guard came bearing a message for him from the Inquisitor. And then he had leave to go. Samson knew the route by heart to the scrying chamber, and when he arrived at the door, he knocked once, and then let himself in, coming up short when he saw Hadiza.

            “Shit,” he said softly, “I thought you were…you alright?” Upon closer inspection it had been clear she had been crying. Samson shut the door behind him, but Hadiza didn’t move. She hesitated.

            “I’m not alright,” she said, “I have to go and possibly die tomorrow.” And then she laughed, but it was so full of sadness Samson couldn’t bring himself to do anything but give her a thin smile in return. She crossed the room, which was more like an old battlefield given what had happened. The magic in the room was dead, the scrying circle partially burned away from Corypheus’ attempt to breach Skyhold’s ancient defenses, and from Samson’s subsequent smite. The sigils were powerless, and the room seemed a great deal plainer for it.

            “Isn’t that what you fucking signed up for?” Samson asked with a chuckle, “Inquisitor and all that.” Hadiza pursed her lips.

            “I just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. This whole entire adventure has been a series of happenstance moments.” She muttered. Samson watched her, and saw a little bit of that fire return to her now that they were speaking again. She laughed, then, pushing that errant lock of hair out of her face, only to have it fall back.

            This time, Samson reached up and gently tucked the lock of hair behind her ear.

            “You did good,” he told her, “going up against Corypheus like that. He’s like no mage I’ve ever seen. Like standing next to a storm.” He smiled at her fondly and she smiled back.

            “Well,” she replied, “had you not been there he might have…done much worse. So thanks.” Samson grunted and shrugged.

            “First time I ever heard a mage be thankful for being silenced but I’ll take what I can get, eh?” Hadiza’s hand splayed across his chest. For a man whose days were numbered, his heartbeat was unusually steady and strong. Perhaps it was the lyrium, or perhaps it was just her imagination, but she found the rhythm soothing in a way she didn’t think she could.

            “Food’s getting’ cold.” Samson reminded her and she laughed softly.

            “I’m not hungry.” She murmured. Samson frowned.

            “You’re not going into a fuckin’ fight on an empty stomach, Hadiza.” He growled. Hadiza frowned, leaned up, and kissed him firmly on the mouth. She swallowed the noise he made, and then pulled away. Samson opened his mouth and then closed it.

            “Shit,” he said, “Shit. Hadiza, you’re…what do you want from me?” Hadiza blinked.

            “You don’t know?” She asked him. Samson laughed harshly, running his fingers through his hair.

            “What? You want to fuck? Is that it? Hadiza, I’m your prisoner—I admit that—you beat me fair and square in a duel. But I’m not a sodding charity case.” Hadiza’s hand went to her mouth, genuinely shocked. She looked down.

            “No,” she whispered, “you’re not. That’s not what I…I didn’t mean to insult you, Samson. I just…” Samson narrowed his eyes. Ah shit, was she about to cry? Her voice was warbling, and when she looked up her eyes were wet.

            Ah, shit.

            “Hadiza…” Samson wanted to hold her, but decided against it. If they were going to be anything more than this, then it would be on mutual terms, “…you just left Cullen this morning, didn’t you?”

            Hadiza nodded. Samson sighed.

            “And now you’re summoning me this evening to do what? You’re not even in the right frame of mind to…I wouldn’t do that to you. If I’m what you want, then I need you in the clear when you make the decision, alright?” Samson frowned. Hadiza drew in a shuddering breath. She knew he was right, and she’d overstepped her bounds. Had she not told Aja this very thing would happen if she moved too soon? What then should she do? Samson, motioned for her to come forward, and she did. In an awkward and uncharacteristic display of affection, he drew her into a hug.

            “What if I don’t come back?” Hadiza asked in a small voice. Samson growled, pushing her away just enough to look down at her.

            “Don’t fuckin’ ice yourself out before the fight, for fuck’s sake. Hadiza you’ve kicked more ass in the past year than most people ever get to do in their entire lives. You’re coming back, princess. You’re coming back because I want to finish this talk when you do.” He leaned in, gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead.

            “Now dry your eyes, princess, and eat up. You’ve got to thrash Corypheus tomorrow, and there’s no better fuel to fuck up someone’s day than a full stomach.”

            Hadiza laughed, and this time, there was life in it, and Samson smiled back at her.


	15. Chapter 15

            Hadiza slept fitfully, but awoke more clear-headed than she had been in recent days. Samson had been right, of course, and when she’d finished her dinner, they’d talked a while longer until the last bells of the night rang. He proposed to send her off to bed, telling her to sleep, and she protested, curled in her great armchair in the scrying chamber. When she’d sufficiently dozed off, Samson chuckled and gently shook her awake, telling her to get to bed. She finally listened, and when she collapsed into bed, she slept.

            Dawn was overcast, the sunlight muted and the clouds a steely gray.

            Hadiza greeted the dawn with a profound sense of purpose, and accomplished her morning routine with a quiet efficiency. After a light breakfast, which considered of little more than buttered bread, grapes, and that Rivaini drink _coffee_ , she dressed and went out to the war room for the day’s events.

            They were waiting for her, of course, and she strode in, her head held high, her eyes cool and unwelcoming. She would not allow what occurred last night to repeat itself this morning.

            “Good morning, Inquisitor,” they greeted her in turn, and Morrigan accorded her a deep nod of respect. Hadiza glanced down at the map where she marked the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

            “Right,” she began, “to business, then.”

  

* * *

           

            Samson wasn’t focused on his work. He knew he wasn’t focused because he kept stopping to clear his head, wipe sweat from his brow, and then continue. No, he wasn’t focused on anything. He was so focused on Hadiza that his head ached. Had she eaten? Had she slept? Maker! He had turned her away when she wanted him, but he didn’t want her to come to him for the wrong reasons. Cullen had said there was nothing left in the man worth saving, but Samson begged to differ. He had his honor. He had his respect for the woman who was trying to give him his life back…what little time he had left of it. Would Cullen have done the same?

            _Enough about that arse,_ Samson chided himself, jabbing his pitchfork into the hay aggressively, _she left him. She left him because he underestimated her constantly. She didn’t leave him for you. She left him for herself._

“Samson,” it was Master Dennet, “I think you’ve done enough for one day. What’s stuck in your craw? Aside from the usual, that is.”

            Samson grumbled something under his breath and Dennet laughed.

            “Lady troubles, eh?” He inquired and at Samson’s bewildered look, he laughed again, “Don’t look so surprised. I’m old but I’m not blind. I know the look of a man who’s besotted.”

            More grumbling.

            “You know,” Dennet said to him, “you’re not so bad a guy, despite being a terrible decision-maker.” Samson’s lips twisted into a frown but Dennet was undaunted.

            “Listen, gossip spreads like wildfire around here, given our small numbers,” Dennet’s tone was grave, “and the Commander hasn’t exactly been the best mood since the incident. So, whatever sway you’ve got on the Inquisitor, I suggest you don’t flaunt it too openly.”

            “What?” Samson demanded, “I think you’re sorely mistaken as to who exactly has the power, here. Andraste’s ass, Dennet, I’m the one imprisoned here. If she wanted to, she could have me executed without question…and no one would miss me.” His voice grew softer during that last part and Dennet’s frown was that of concern.

            “So you _are_ smitten with her, then.” Dennet said with a knowing grin. Samson growled in warning.

            “Is it because she bested you in combat? Or is it something more than that?”

            Samson was about to retort with something truly uncouth when he thought about it. He never truly thought about it, did he? That was a lie. He thought about it all the time. Thought about all the reasons to love her, to be in love with her, with her giddy laugh, and her warm smile, and her stubborn nature. He thought of all the reasons every night when they left the scrying room, about how in another life, had their paths crossed under different circumstances, he would have barely been worthy of her. He surely wasn’t worthy of her, _now_.

            “I ain’t a poet, Dennet,” he muttered with a laugh, “but I think she could make one out of me.”

            At that, Dennet laughed.

            “Well that’s how you know, lad. Now that we’ve cleared that up, finish up here so we can make it before the lunch bell.”

            Samson found it easier to work then. He hadn’t said much about how he felt, but the fact that someone understood and hadn’t reprimanded him for it, well, that made it so much easier in his mind. He still thought of her, of course, but instead of becoming the forefront of his mind, she was an undercurrent of song, a rhythm to which he worked. Her laughter was in the crunch of the hay beneath his feet, her smile just out of his peripheral vision, like a light flickering in the distance, and he imagined no few times, turning to find her standing there, waiting expectantly, with that friendly smile on her face. She would laugh and say his name, and he’d smile back, ask her what she was doing here.

            And then she’d go to that damnable dracolisk of hers and cuddle the thing like it didn’t have a mouth full of flesh-rending teeth. Samson would smile fondly, because the fucking beast would snuggle her back, crooning and screeching happily.

            But she never did show up, and he knew why. Today she had to go to her final battle, and Samson found the pitchfork heavier at the thought. He paused, remembering her words.

            _What if I don’t come back?_

With a growl and a curse, Samson finished his work. She’d bloody well come back. She’d kick Corypheus ass all over the Fade if need be, and she’d come back to him so he could stop being foolish and tell her how important she had become to him these last few months, and how much he wanted her, and how he dreamt of her.

            And Maker sod it all, how much he wanted to _touch_ her.

            Samson glanced up at the battlements, hoping for a glimpse of her, but he saw nothing and turned away.

 

* * *

 

 

            “This is the endgame,” Hadiza was saying that afternoon, “we go in and we fight to the death. Corypheus is at the end of his rope, and he’s desperate.” She was gnawing on a pastry, and had summoned her Inner Circle to the war room along with her advisors.

            “He’ll have red templars of a surety, my dear,” Vivienne said in her cool voice, “are we to bypass them and strike for Corypheus directly?” Hadiza narrowed her eyes momentarily, considering. They were gathered around the large war table, bearing witness to the might of the Inquisition in miniature as Hadiza traced her plan around the Temple of Sacred Ashes.

            “We’ll have one team to engage the red templars,” Hadiza said at last, “and the rest of us will go for Corypheus. I didn’t get a good look at his numbers but his forces have dwindled since our victory in the Arbor Wilds. I think…” She swallowed as the realization dawned on her.

            “Shit.” She swore under her breath and saw Iron Bull stir. He was reading her, she knew, but she wasn’t making an effort to hide it.

            “Okay,” she wiped her mouth with a napkin, tossed back the remainder of her drink, and sighed, “I think I know what he plans to do.”

            Her companions were silent.

            _Well, here it goes._

            “Everyone knows the story of the magisters breaching the Fade to get to the Black City, right?” She asked. There were slow nods all around.

            “We’ve taken two means of Corypheus’ ability to do that again. He’s going to go for broke in this, I think. He’s going for blood sacrifice. I heard him say it. Sacrifices done during the blood moon’s rise tonight.”

            “Could be a trap, boss.” Iron Bull said, “You said he caught you spying and might have been misleading you on purpose.” Hadiza nodded.

            “This is true, but I thought it through and I don’t think he had time to mislead me before he caught me. He initially used blood sacrifice to open the Breach, remember?”

            As if anyone could have forgotten. Hadiza remembered all too well, now.

            “I think he means to do so again, though why return to the Temple, I can’t say. The bottom line is this: we go in and we stop him. Aja, Bull, Cassandra, and Dorian; I need you all with me. We’re going to fuck Corypheus’ night up.”

            Bull’s eager laugh was not shared by anyone else in the room, but Aja did smile in grim satisfaction. Hadiza pointed to the map.

            “Blackwall, you take Varric, Cole, Vivienne, and Sera and destroy as many red templars as you can. Keep them from flanking us.”

            “Aye, Inquisitor.” Blackwall affirmed. Hadiza tapped her lips with her index finger.

            “Leliana, any word on when Ghost will be back?” She asked. Leliana inclined her head as she replied.

            “She arrived just this morning, actually. I told her to wait in the rookery. Shall I fetch her when we’re through here?” Hadiza shook her head.

            “No. I’ll get her. Alright, we’re done for now. Everyone, make your final preparations. We leave just after sundown.”

            As the backbone of the Inquisition filed out of the war room, Hadiza felt…lighter. With a plan in place, she felt as if things were not completely hopeless. She caught Cullen’s gaze as she made for the door, and stopped short as Cullen nearly crossed her path.

            “I’m sorry—excuse me…” Cullen’s words came out in a rush as he stepped back to allow Hadiza to pass. Hadiza sighed and thanked him before heading out.

            “Hadi—Inquisitor,” Cullen called after her and she turned, part way, brows raised, “Maker keep you safe.” Hadiza smiled a little, then, and for a moment it was as if nothing had changed.

            “And you, Commander.”

  

* * *

 

 

            Ariadne Trevelyan—or Ghost, as she was known—was a woman who was at once striking and hardly noticeable. She occupied the twilight region between alluring and repulsive, and she was just the sort of individual one might find in the rookery that had become Leliana’s haunt. She was standing by one of the windows, overlooking the sprawling expanse of the Frostbacks, and turned as soon as Hadiza ascended the staircase. Ariadne did not smile at her elder half-sister, but there was a certain aura of smug satisfaction about her.

            “Did you get it?” Hadiza asked without preamble. Ariadne’s smile came slow and easy, giving her the look of a cat that ate the canary and was unapologetic about it.

            “I did,” she said smoothly, “and it wasn’t easy, let me tell you. It’s a highly coveted item, and every fence in Kirkwall was trying to hoard it away or pretend they hadn’t seen it.”

            “Good,” Hadiza said automatically, “I trust you didn’t cause too much of a stir while there?” Ariadne shrugged.

            “The guard don’t venture to Darktown after daylight hours, so it was relatively safe for me to operate in complete stealth. I left the package in your bedchamber. You’ll get my bill one of these days.” Ariadne laughed. Hadiza smiled, leaning against Leliana’s work table.

            “How’s Rylen doing?” She asked conversationally. Ariadne didn’t so much as flinch or startle at the name and Hadiza silently applauded the tenacity with which the woman composed her mask. However, when she spoke, her voice was soft, gentle…fond.

            “He’s well,” she murmured, “as well as one can be out in the Approach, anyway. Shall I send my regards or are you done attempting to raise my hackles?”

            Hadiza laughed again. Well, she should have known Ariadne would catch onto her attempt to rankle her.

            “Yes,” she said contentedly, “I’m done messing with you. Will you stay a while before you journey back out?” Ariadne’s shoulders tensed, and her eyelids flickered; it was as close to surprise as Hadiza would get her. She wagered Rylen had better luck.

            “Long enough to replenish my supplies and rest my mount, Inquisitor,” she said coolly, “but I hear you intend to face Corypheus this evening one last time. I suppose saying ‘Maker keep you’ is pointless.”

            Hadiza raised a brow. Ariadne hadn’t been much of a devout Andrastian, though given her line of work; one could hardly blame her, could one?

            “So I shall say this,” Ariadne said as she cleared her throat, “may your blade strike true and the creature’s death be swift.” Hadiza smiled at her half-sister.

            “Thank you,” she murmured, “and if I do not see you again after tonight, safe travels.”

            And with that, Hadiza bounded off to her room for the final preparations.

  

* * *

 

 

            Samson wasn’t expecting a summons from Hadiza; not after seeing her companions file out of the war room. He knew she needed to focus, now more than ever, but it didn’t curb the longing in his blood. So when she summoned him to her quarters, Samson had to keep from sprinting, and instead, made his way there quietly and unobtrusively. The sun had moved across the sky and Samson was once more in awe at the decadence and opulence of her inner sanctum.

            “This where you keep all the light in this place?” He asked aloud, then stopped short when he saw her.

            _Maker’s fucking breath_.

            She looked just as she had when first they crossed paths in the Arbor Wilds. He’d never really seen her at Haven, but he’d seen her in the Wilds, all bathed in green light. She wore her battlemage armor of deep, might blue, and was just pulling on one of her gloves when he reached her. She turned, and he smiled; couldn’t fucking help it. The woman just did it for him. She smiled back and for once, there wasn’t any need to foul up the moment with pointless words. He leaned his forehead against hers, took a deep breath to inhale her. He could smell leather oil on her, and the subtle scent of the soap she used.

            He poked her in the belly, getting a surprised laugh out of her. In retaliation she lightly pinched his ribs. Her laughter matched the shaft of sunlight they stood in, and Samson was keenly aware of how quickly the sun would set now that he seemed to be exactly where he wanted to be.

            Reluctantly, as the sun sank below the mountains, he pulled away from her. Hadiza bit her lip, longing racing through her body alongside the adrenaline. She would have given anything to reverse the sunset just a while longer. Samson helped her fix her armor in places, quick and efficient, with all the decades of experience of a man used to it. He tightened belts and straps, and shook his head with a smirk as he tucked that errant lock of hair behind her ear.

            “Now,” he told her, breaking their silence, “go and fuck Corypheus right in the ass, princess.”

            Her resulting laughter was the perfect ending to the day.


	16. Chapter 16

            It was a pity that fate made for a poor fortuneteller, because had Hadiza known what she truly faced, she might have lost her nerve. She did not have the steel in her spine wrought by training to face down any and every enemy, only the blind stumbling of her own fear and sheer force of will. She had faced down demons of every variety in and out of the Fade; had faced down the undead; had bested an Avvar berserker in battle; had defeated Corypheus’ general in single combat; and had then proceeded to unfuck Thedas region by region.

            Throughout all of this, not once had she actually fought Corypheus, and the one time she had the opportunity, he had proceeded to drop a dragon directly on top of her. The next time she saw him, she was fleeing for her life through an arcane mirror-portal. In all of her travels, nothing could prepare her for the magister’s power. He had crawled into her mind during her scrying, had attempted to corrupt her resolve and control her with her own rigid terror. Had Samson not struck her down, she might have lost control.

            Now, as they approached the Temple of Sacred Ashes in all of its unholy ruin, Hadiza realized that nothing would ever prepare her for this fight.

            “Where’s Morrigan?” Aja asked as they made their way to the Temple. Hadiza shook her head, made a gesture above her head. Aja understood. The witch would manifest when the time was right and not a moment before. She was, after all, their trump card.

            In the distance, there was the distinct murmur of chanting, a discordant chorus of voices that rose and fell in an eerie melody in a tongue that could not have been Thedosian even in the Ancient times. Hadiza walked in silence, as she’d been trained, toe first, and heel last. The rubble barely shifted beneath her steps as they rounded a corner to the ruined steps leading into what was once the Temple’s outer sanctum.

            And happened upon a startled, wide-eyed pair of Venatori guarding the entrance.

            Their mouths barely opened before Aja’s sword derailed from its sheath and the two died before their cries could scarce leave their mouths. Aja was loud and nasty when she wanted to be—mostly _because_ she wanted to be—but she could be a ruthless and quiet warrior when stealth was required. She wiped her sword on one of the Venatori’s robes.

            “Weapons free,” Hadiza whispered to her team and steel hissed from various sheaths, and magic charged the air. The chanting grew as they approached the ruined sanctum. Corypheus towered over his legion of Venatori, but did not seem interested in the proceedings, his head lifted toward the sky. Hadiza felt her heart seize up with dread. Above, the scarred sky seemed to shudder.

            “Inquisitor,” Cassandra began, her voice alarmed as Hadiza’s left hand began to crackle and glow.

            “Shit.” Hadiza swore.

            Corypheus turned his eyes from the sky and looked directly at her. He smiled, but the corruption on his face gave it the appearance of a sneer.

            The Temple was bathed in green light and the sound of splitting stone caroled into the night air.

 

* * *

 

 

                  He was prepared when Cullen came to him. He was more than prepared. Samson, for the first time in a long while, had finally reached a state of being that allowed him to think clearly…when the lyrium wasn’t singing too loudly.

            “Commander,” he drawled from his easy recline on his cot as Cullen darkened the doorway, “fancy seeing you here. Come to chat again, have you? I do so love our little talks.”

            Cullen’s frown could likely frighten a demon back into the Fade for all its intensity, but Samson merely wore his wolfish smirk, smug and superior. Cullen shut the door behind him and Samson saw that the guard had been relieved. Ah, so this was to be _that_ kind of chat, then.

            “It’s not enough that you spit in the face of the Chantry, or defile the Order with your treachery, you must corrupt her as well?”

            Samson tilted his head, his gaze amused and questioning.

            “Her? Oh, you mean _Hadi_ —“

            “Don’t speak her name!” Cullen snapped. Samson laughed, then.

            “Maker’s fuckin’ balls, Cullen, when will you learn to cut your losses and bow out with some grace?” Samson didn’t move from his easy recline, but adjusted, languidly, like a lounging jungle cat after a meal. Cullen was furious, and Samson saw the man was at war with himself and all that had transpired.

            “She told you why she was leaving,” Samson said, but there was no cruelty in his voice, “it has not to do with me. But if you want to tack that on to the list of things you blame me for, then by all means I won’t stop you.” Cullen advanced, then stopped short, balling his hand into a fist. Samson sighed, sitting up a little straighter.

            “I’m gonna go ahead and make this easy for you, Cullen,” he said, and his tone was deadly quiet, “I didn’t fuck her, but I’d be lying if I said the thought never crossed my mind. She’s gorgeous, and funny, and beneath those robes is a great body, I can tell. The only thing I’ve done, is be there for her. Whatever she needs.”

            Cullen’s face was a thunderhead of fury, but it cleared up somewhat.

            “You’re a prisoner of the Inquisition, Samson,” he snarled, “and a war criminal of the highest order. You reach beyond your station.” Samson tilted his head.

            “So did you.” He said simply, stopping Cullen short. Samson didn’t reveal to Cullen what he meant. His conversations with Hadiza were for them alone, not for some bitter ex who merely wished to find an outlet for his heartbreak.

            “She chose me,” Cullen said, “and you took her.”

            “I didn’t take shit, Cullen, for fuck’s sake. She’s her own person. I can’t take her any more than you can. That right there is why you lost her. You don’t see her as an individual. You just see her as…just another mage. Fuck, it’s as if we’re back in Kirkwall all over again. Did you even tell her about it? All of it?”

            Cullen was quiet.

            “How much does she even fuckin’ know about _Ser_ Cullen? Or did you only give her the Commander and hope for the best?” Samson sneered. Cullen growled beneath the fissures of his previously calm façade.

            “Did you really expect her to suffer at your side until you pulled your head out of your own ass?”

            “And what do you offer her, Samson?” Cullen shot back, “You are a broken shell of the man you once were, lyrium-addled and sickly. Your death is imminent, you said so yourself.” Samson did not lose his temper, and he smiled all the wider. He had accepted who and what he was. He _knew_ he was not worthy of her. Cullen, on the other hand, had a hard time accepting defeat.

            “That’s what this is about, Commander?” Samson asked, “You’re angry because a woman changed her mind about you…for her own well-being? I may be a broken shell of a man but at least I wasn’t so selfish as to believe Hadiza Trevelyan could ever belong with me.”

            But that was what pissed him off, wasn’t it? Samson couldn’t stop grinning. It pissed him off that despite Cullen’s character assassination of him in front of the Inquisition, his habit of turning a blind eye to abuse, and his dubious stance on mages despite his superior being one, Hadiza had still chosen Samson in the end. And even then, Samson was not sure she chose him, but she had definitely given him more of his pride back than he would have gotten had Cullen had his way.

            “How long do you want me to suffer before your insufferable sense of honor is satisfied, Commander? Is it not enough that your men abuse me in my cell? Or is it because she sees hope for me where you see only nothing?”

            Cullen turned away.

            “Hadiza has always seen the good in people, even where there isn’t any,” he said softly, “and at times, it makes her easy to take advantage of. I won’t see her suffer because she saw something in you that is no longer there.”

            “Oh fuck off,” Samson snapped, “as if you are the shining example of every templar in the Order. Abusing recruits for information, letting Meredith brand every mage forehead in the Gallows that so much as twitched their nose, and let’s not forget how much of a chickenshit you were until the very last moment. Until the Champion came to clean up the mess you and your lot made.” Samson hocked up a wad of spittle, let it fly in disgust.

            “As I said before: piss on it. The Chantry, the Order, all of it. You lot preach of protection, honor, duty, and sacrifice, but how many mages suffered under your watch, Cullen? How many of your fellow templars were left to rot after the Chantry had wrung them limp of all usefulness? And did you extend a hand to any of us? Did you even think of any of us at all when the Chantry slammed the door in our faces?”

            Cullen shook, turned to face Samson, eyes blazing. Samson spread his arms wide.

            “Go on,” he laughed derisively, “have a go at me. That’s generally how you solve your problems, isn’t it? Hit first, ask questions later, and if anyone brings it up…pretend it never happened.”

            “You were a lyrium addict, Samson. You still are. Weak to the call of it, just as you were weak in Kirkwall.” Cullen sneered.

            “And if I heard right, it was Hadiza who helped you kick your lyrium habit, Commander,” Samson countered, “but maybe you neglected to tell her just how greedy you were for your own dosage. Helped you sleep at night, if I recall.”

            Cullen’s face went ashen momentarily, and his jaw set. Samson sat back, resuming his easy recline.

            “Who’s Galatea?” He asked suddenly and Cullen went pale.

            “None of your concern.” He muttered. Samson chuckled.

            “The woman you claim to love is out there, right now, fighting to save all of us from the horrors of an ancient magister’s arrogance, and you come here to what? Fight me for her? Is that what this is?”

            “I do not need to fight you, Samson,” Cullen said nastily, “you are already beaten, twice over.” Samson nodded.

            “I’ve acknowledged this fucking fact, Commander, but it’s good of you to remind me. Builds character. So if you’re not here to fight me for her, then what in Andraste’s puckered asshole do you want?”

            Silence answered him. Samson sighed. He was tired of it; Cullen was such an easy fucking mark, and beneath that cool exterior was the temper of an agitated lion. It was fun to fuck with him, make him face the truth, but it wasn’t getting anything through that thick skull.

            “Cullen,” Samson’s voice was guileless and free of its needling tone, “I know what I did was despicable. I know nothing I say excuses my decision to do it. At the time, I was of a mind that the Chantry and the Order had failed in their duties. And I still believe that they did. I was also starved for lyrium.” Samson looked away, his gaze distant, remembering a time he was least proud to be alive.

            “It tore me up inside to make the templars go through the process of ingesting the red. But I convinced myself I was doing them a favor. I thought maybe…just maybe we could reclaim some of the old prestige outta this. I didn’t realize how wrong I was until I saw the way she looked at me. I could take the insults you hurled my way…but not that fucking look in her eyes.”

            Cullen’s expression softened. He knew the look Samson spoke of. It was the last look Hadiza gave him before they…separated.

            “And now?” He asked. Samson met his gaze.

            “Now I’m waiting. She’s fighting for us all, Commander, are you really going to begrudge her the choice she made?”

            To that, Cullen could not say. His heart was shattered, of a surety, but Hadiza was right, and he knew it deep down, despite telling himself that she was perfect for him. She was kind, noble, just, shrewd, and her laughter was like sunlight. But she was also a mage, and he realized that she could never downplay that, as she said. She loved her magic as much as she loved the other aspects of herself, and it was something that made Cullen wary, and perhaps without thinking, it showed. Perhaps, without thinking, he had attempted to smother that part of her and keep the parts he liked.

            Perhaps he had fallen in love with the Inquisitor and not Hadiza.

            “I hope,” Cullen said finally, “for your sake, that you are sincere.” Samson said nothing in response, his expression unreadable. Cullen left him, then, hollow with the realization of defeat, and the realization that perhaps he was still the man he thought he’d left behind in Kirkwall.

 

* * *

 

 

            “The fucking arrogance of this guy,” Hadiza muttered to herself as she climbed to her feet, “did he really just arrange the rubble to look like…?” She didn’t even bother because she knew the answer. Above their heads, the Breach swirled, open and torn anew, only this time demons weren’t coming from it.

            “Everyone alright?” Hadiza called. Iron Bull shook himself free of a few crumbling stones, hefting his battle-axe on his shoulder.

            “All good here, boss.” He replied. Dorian had shielded himself and Bull from most of the blast, while Cassandra and Aja had formed their shields together in a crouch.

            Hadiza did a quick head count. They were all alive and relatively unharmed. In the center of the clearing, Corypheus stood, and he looked livid. Hadiza decided in that moment that the time for petty games had long past. She had to face this enemy or die, and she had never considered herself a coward in any sense. She motioned for her team to prepare to assault the magister. Aja and Cassandra led ahead of both Dorian and Hadiza, defending their mage charges, while Iron Bull, deceptively nimble and quick for his size, circled around. They had Corypheus surrounded and the bastard didn’t have the decency to look the least bit worried.

            _No matter_ , Hadiza thought with a morbid sense of glee, _we’re here, now. Stand or die._

Corypheus sneered at them each in turn, raised his spindly arms, and began to cast. The first spell was a rain of red lightning, and Hadiza was silently thankful for having brought Cassandra, who dispelled an area for them to seek refuge in. The fight was going to be a long one, arduous, bloody, and one for the history books.

            Hadiza steeled her courage, gripped her staff, and began a counter-spell. Analogous to her, Dorian was already conjuring the undead, now made numerous by Corypheus’ sacrificing of his Venatori supporters, and so their small squad became a small battalion.

            Aja and Cassandra were nimble and quick, ducking behind their shields as spells splashed against their magic-proof surfaces, then going in for speedy and precise strikes, and darting away as Corypheus made to fry them to ash, growling in frustration when his spells simply weren’t hitting where the two women had been.

            “Still you persist, Pretender!” Corypheus shouted as Bull descended on him, but was swatted hard. He managed to roll and climb back to his feet, and charged again.

            “Still so determined to die at my hands,” Corypheus continued, reaching for Aja who quickly tucked in her shield and sword, and rolled out of the way, only to be caught on the edges of a frost spell, ice forming around one of her booted feet. She brought her shield up and then shattered the ice with a cry of anguish, letting out a taunting roar, her Reaver rage fueled by her own injuries. The whites of her eyes were blood shot with madness, and she became relentless, hacking at Corypheus, dodging when he swiped, bringing her shield up when he cast, and finally working in tandem with Bull, who swept in like a cyclone.

            Corypheus stumbled.

            Dorian saw the opportunity and cast a life-drain spell and tore away the last of the magister’s shields. It was perhaps the most short-lived victory in the battle, for almost immediately there was an ear-piercing screech from above. The blighted dragon at Corypheus’ beck and call was making a swan dive toward them, and the magister smiled in triumph, all but giddy with victory. Had Hadiza not seen it with her own eyes, she might not have believed it, but a _second_ dragon crashed into the first, all claws and leathery wings, screeching and roaring as both beasts took to higher altitudes in a battle that Hadiza knew she would never be able to describe in detail.

            Corypheus’ frustrated cry was short-lived as Aja and Bull flanked him, aiming to hack away the red lyrium protruding from his corrupted body. Corypheus’ shields were stripped, leaving the magister vulnerable. Hadiza and Dorian stood back to back, shielded one another, and began to cast. They were fire and ice, lightning and spirit, a terribly beautiful display of everything a mage represented. They were free, they were powerful, and they were determined to beat back this creature that dared crawl from the darkness of a history they’d rather forget.

            Above them, the dragons continued to battle like titans, and higher still, the Breach swirled, an open and indolent yawn of sickly green. From this height, one could see directly into the Fade, and around the edges of the sky’s wound, the silhouettes of demons and horrors waiting. The entire Breach was waiting, eager, and _hungry_.

            Hadiza caught glimpses of this, and was reminded that only she could seal the sky.

            They could not afford to lose, lest the horrible future she and Dorian had briefly lived in come to pass.

  

* * *

 

            

            His cell was closing in on him; he could feel it as he paced the small space, knifing his fingers through his hair in agitation. He was not even permitted outside to watch the sky for results—no doubt Cullen’s doing. He worried about her, worried that perhaps had he asked, she might have taken him along. He still had his sword arm and his strength. He’d not wasted these last few months at Skyhold languishing.

            And had she not requested him as her personal guardian?

            Maker fuck it all, he _needed_ to be in that fight. He knew her companions could protect her, but none of them had ever stood in the presence of Corypheus. None of them could gauge the magister’s power, and that of the blighted dragon. He knew tactics they didn’t, and he maintained his templar abilities. He could easily suppress the magister if he had enough lyrium in his system.

            Samson let out an angry growl of frustration, swiping his hand in fury, knocking the pitcher of water off of his bedside table. He would give anything to see to her safety, and to see Corypheus’ fucking face when his disgraced general was there to help the Inquisitor deliver the final blow. He needed her to survive so they could finish that fucking conversation he suddenly regretted putting off. He’d been so sure she could kick the magister’s ass, and he never gave thought to the ‘what if’ scenario. Hadiza was a powerful mage, but she was not the storm that Corypheus carried within himself. She could be terrible in her might and fury, but she lacked the oppressive presence the magister had. She could not walk into a room and have people feel compelled to defer to her in the most obscene displays of worship. She was outmatched, unless she had a templar to guard her back.

            Unless _he_ guarded her back…as her champion and protector.

            There was a sound of a key turning in the lock, and the door to his cell swung open. He had been expecting Cullen again, but standing there was a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Hadiza, save there was something…off about her. The silver eyes were a dead giveaway, however, but he could not be certain of her name…just what kind of individual she was.

            “Cullen finally deciding to collect my head?” Samson asked with a sneer. The woman lifted her chin a bit, an amused smile on her face.

            “Do you think that the Commander would leave such a task to the likes of an assassin and not do the deed himself, Samson?” Her voice was pitched low and amused, a purring contralto as she leaned against the doorway, eyeing him. Samson was too impatient for games from one of Leliana’s folk.

            “Out with it,” he growled, “have you people nothing better to do than torment me?”

            The woman gave a droll shrug of her shoulders and spilled into the hallway, retrieving something. It was a heavy package, and when she carefully unrolled it Samson’s eyes went wide. It was armor, of course. It was in the style of templars, without the Chantry’s touches, but the style was distinctive all the same. It was polished and well kept, and clearly lovingly tended. He didn’t need the woman to tell him that this armor had once been his.

            Samson stared at the armor, and the carefully wrapped sword with its worn leather hilting, and the firm, round pommel. He knew without having to heft it that its weight and balance were perfect with an aching familiarity. The woman watched as he ran his fingers over the assorted pieces of equipment, then immediately decided to get dressed. The woman turned to allow him privacy, and when the last strap had been adjusted and tightened, Samson felt…he felt like he was home. The sword at his hip was perfect, familiar, uncorrupted by lyrium, red or blue.

            “One last thing,” the woman said, “Hadiza mentioned that you might want this back, so she sent me to Kirkwall to find it. Said something about reclaiming what others think you have lost.” Samson stared hard at what the woman carried. It was a shield, but not so ordinary a shield. It was the highest mark of honor and rank a templar could carry, and it had been a gift to him in his glory days long ago from a knight-commander long since retired or dead. Instead of the flaming sword insignia of the Order, it was a blazing sun superimposed on another. It was the sun-shield, a shield infused with the holy power that all templars carried within themselves. He took it from the woman, reverent and in awe, and then he slid it on his arm and it was as if all was as it once had been.

            “Now,” the woman chirped, “ready to go and save your damsel in distress?”

            Samson looked up sharply, and slowly he gave that wolfish grin.

            Perhaps the Maker had not forsaken him after all.

  

* * *

 

 

            They were flagging; of course they were flagging. Hadiza leaned against her staff, trying to control her breathing. They were low on lyrium potions, and Bull had been knocked out of the fight despite Dorian’s efforts to revive him; the Qunari was unconscious, but not dead. Aja was surviving on the dregs of her rage, but Hadiza could see the blood leaking from the head wound she’d sustained. Even Cassandra was flagging, her shield arm holding that subtle quiver that belied an inner fatigue more profound than anything she’d likely known. The woman who had slain two dragons at once refused to meet her match in an ancient darkspawn magister, but his stamina and strength were high.

            To make matters worse, Morrigan was injured as well, and her dragon—or the form of the dragon she took—inaccessible.

            But Corypheus’ dragon was dead as well, leaving the magister vulnerable, but still formidable in strength.

            “Why do you persist?” He demanded, batting aside Dorian’s spells with ease, coming for Hadiza. She stumbled, her sight half-blinded by her own sweat and blood, her staff clattering to the ground as she felt a familiar grip around her waist. Corypheus lifted her to eye level, his expression one of disdain, but the eyes—ah Maker, his fucking eyes! There was knowledge there; knowledge that was deep, ancient, and long forgotten. Forbidden knowledge… _dangerous_ knowledge.

            “Even now, your companions begin to flounder. Even now, your life begins to ebb from you. You are all dust! Dust beneath the feet of your betters.” Corypheus practically spat. Hadiza could not muster the strength to do anything with her expressions, but she could speak.

            “Did you learn nothing from your first attempt to enter the Fade?” She croaked out, and she saw his lip curl, reminded of a wound as yet unhealed, despite it being thousands of years old.

            “You will die tonight, Herald,” Corypheus’ voice was cold and promising, “and your blood shall be the baptism to usher in the new era of a new god.”

            It was in that moment that Corypheus’ grip began to tighten around her midsection. Hadiza wheezed, then felt her bones begin to give under the pressure. In a moment they would crack and she’d die from whatever internal damage he was doing.

            “You should have died the night I caught you scrying,” Corypheus was saying, “or the night I buried your pathetic Inquisition beneath the might of my army.” He jerked her and Hadiza coughed up blood. Andraste! What damage had he done?

            “And now, here, in your final hour, I will see the life torn from you myself. I will make sure there are no _miracles_ to come to the aid of the Herald of Andraste,” Corypheus spat the title like a curse, derisive and disgusted, “the audacity…to call yourself to herald of a _slave_.”

            Hadiza’s mouth moved, but it was filled with the coppery taste of her own blood. Her vision was failing and her arms had gone slack at her sides. Soon she would slip into unconsciousness, and hopefully deep enough that she did not feel him kill her.

            “May your blood be the first sacrament to Thedas’ new god.” Corypheus growled and Hadiza shut her eyes, waiting for death.

            It never came.

            It never came because an arrow whistled through the air and took Corypheus’ strongly in the face and exploded. His resulting roar loosened his grip and he tossed Hadiza aside, whipping around to find the offending marksman. Hadiza lay curled on the rocky ground, the pain that throbbed in her nerves utterly unfathomable. Her staff lay mere feet away. Knowing it a futile effort, she reached with a trembling hand to retrieve it. Then she dropped her hand because the pain was too much.

            Corypheus was being assaulted with arrows from Varric, Sera, and the one they called Ghost. All three of them kept him busy while Aja and Cassandra helped Hadiza to her feet.

            No one spoke; there was no need and no time.

            Corypheus turned on them, casting a spell as he did. It was too fast, and they were too exhausted. Hadiza felt death coming for them as they attempted to veer sidelong, despite her pain.

            She saw only fire, and then there was brightness, a terrible brightness and she turned her head to shield her eyes from it. It was like the sun itself, but the heat from the flames never engulfed her, but the light did, and it felt so…good. It felt as if that were where she belonged. By the time it cleared, she blinked away the spots in her sun-dazzled eyes and glanced around.

            “Well,” Aja muttered through her death’s head grin, “fuck me sideways. How good of you to show up!” Hadiza blinked, and what she saw made her heart soar in her chest, pain be damned. Samson stood in front of her, wearing what looked to be his old templar armor, only modified, and he held a shield that still glowed with…was it the sun? He held his sword in an easy grip and Corypheus hissed, partially burned by whatever power Samson had brought with him.

            “ _You_.” Was all the magister managed to hiss out, reaching for his magic only to find it suppressed and weakened by both Samson’s will and that of Cassandra’s. Samson stood taller than Hadiza remembered, and then she realized that it was pride that straightened his back; pride and a damnable sense of honor, duty, and sacrifice that Cullen swore the man no longer had.

            “Me,” Samson spat, “me and many others who are sick of your shit, Corypheus. Your shit: everything people fear and hate in mages.”

            Corypheus shouted out an epithet, and then called out to the Breach, to Dumat, to the first of the Old Gods to be corrupted. He called out for power to slay those who would keep him from what he considered to be his destiny. When he received no answer, he stared at Hadiza in disbelief.

            “I don’t understand…!” He shouted, angry and confused, and it was an ancient anger and confusion, the same that may have wracked him when first he breached the Black City and found nothing there.

            Hadiza wanted to smile, and so she did, through her bloodied mouth, coming to stand at Samson’s side.

            “Finish him, princess,” Samson murmured, “for all of us.”

            And she did, gathering all of the power into the Anchor, growing in strength as Corypheus in his shock, diminished in his. Hadiza retrieved her staff, held it in one hand, took the orb with the other, and found the strength to speak.

            “You would make the same mistake you did these thousands of years past,” she advanced on him as he dropped to his knees, “the mistake mages like me have been paying for since then. You want to breach the Fade? _Fine_.” Hadiza was angry now, angrier than she had ever been in her life, but it was not the magma-like anger that welled in her veins and made her see red. No, this anger was white-hot, like the heart of a star, and righteous. It was a clean anger because above all else it was _justified_.

            “I am **done** paying for the mistakes of your kind.” She told him and then lifted the orb to close the Breach. The shock of it hit her like a fist to the chest and had Samson not been there to steady her, she might not have been able to withstand the impact. He was there—a solid and stalwart anchor—and she felt confident and proud in her decision to restore his honor. Corypheus attempted to reach for her, desperate for one final grasp at victory even with his defeat so imminent. Hadiza easily redirected the Breach’s energy to him, and without the orb to protect him, Corypheus suffered, writhing in agony, his dying shrieks the only time Hadiza ever took pleasure in another’s pain. He had ruined so many lives in the year and a half since he first opened the Breach.

            Now, she would end his as she closed the sky’s wound for the final time.

            The orb thrummed with an overload of energy, and Hadiza was flooded with power the likes of which she’d never felt. This was better than blood magic, so far beyond it. Mages drew their magic from tears in the Veil, shaping the raw energy of the Fade into something useful. But Hadiza was directly connected to the Fade through this orb, and the energy was great and terrible, flooding her mind with an endless array of possibilities.

            She could see it: the Black City. It floated beyond her reach, but with this amount of power she could reach it. She saw the possibilities of what could happen if _she_ took the Seat of the Maker for herself. She could fix Thedas as a goddess more than she ever could as the Inquisitor. She could rule this world, fix it, make it fair and just for all. She could end the wars, end the hypocrisy, turn the people to a common goal, a common cause.

            Her goal, and her cause.

            She could do it; the Inquisition could be run well enough without her and she could rule from the Black City. Corypheus had let the world become overrun with demons and blood mages. She promised she would never do such an abominable thing.

            “Hadiza!” Samson’s voice pulled at her, and the Black City became more and more distant from her mind’s eye.

            “Hadiza, finish it!” A grip tightened around her waist and suddenly she was back in the ruins of the Temple, floating beneath the steadily pulsating Breach.

            With an anguished cry, she shut the Breach, and collapsed.

            Samson caught her easily as she dropped the broken orb.

 

* * *

 

  

            Samson held her.

            He held her as she collapsed, because he knew as no one else on this fucking rock did, that she had almost been lost to them. Hadiza was limp and light in his arms, like a dream, or a cloud, but she was breathing and she was alive, and that was more than enough for him.

            “Let her go.” Cassandra said coolly, pointing her sword at him. Samson could have laughed. He came in and saved them from being friend by Corypheus and this was how they repaid him.

            “Seeker,” Aja said, “he just kind of saved our asses, and my sister’s. I think…we can…spare him just this once.”

            “How fuckin’ kind of you,” Samson drawled, but there was none of the malice in his tone; he’d burned most of the lyrium in his system away, and now was feeling the distinctive ache of having so little of it. But all of that paled in comparison to the relief he felt when Hadiza’s eyes opened slowly and she let out a pained groan that ended in a high-pitched croak.

            “Samson…?” She wondered, blinking as if to clear her vision. Samson grinned down at her, feeling more and more relief but also feeling…giddy.

            “That’s me, princess,” he murmured and could have died when she smiled at him weakly.

            “We’ve got to…” she murmured, “fire whoever was on patrol. How’d you get out?”

            Samson laughed, but didn’t answer her. He could deal with that question another day. Around him, the Inner Circle of the Inquisition gathered, and he sighed. There would be time for him and Hadiza later. Right now, they had to get back to solid ground, and make for Skyhold.

            That, actually proved to be a lot easier said than done. By the time the mages in their group had done all the healing they could, Hadiza was well enough to stand and walk on her own, albeit she was still sore. Dorian had mended the internal damage Corypheus had done, leaving only bruises and aching in the wake of his healing magic.

            No one questioned Hadiza when she opted to walk by Samson’s side. They’d seen what transpired, and if they doubted his rehabilitation before, he’d done more than enough to clear that doubt when he held the Inquisitor like a lover as she sealed the Breach and slew Corypheus.

            “He likes the smell of her when she’s spellcasting,” Cole said in a puzzled voice, “like a thunderstorm in the spring. She reminds him of sunlight and—“

            “I _think_ ,” Varric said with a chuckle, “those are private thoughts, kid.” Cole glanced down at the dwarf.

            “But he wants to shout it from the mountaintops,” the spirit protested, “he wants the whole world to know he—“

            “Knock it off!” Samson growled, then narrowed his eyes at Hadiza’s quiet laughter.

 

* * *

 

            The journey back to Skyhold was uneventful, and given that the universal threat to Thedas was now a smoking hulk on floating ruins, it wasn’t surprising. They’d procured horses for the injured, while others were content to continue the journey on foot. Samson walked by Hadiza’s side the entire time, while she rode when her fatigue became too much.

            They made camp sparingly, wanting to continue to push toward Skyhold in a timely fashion. During that time, most of it was spent sleeping when they could, or gathered around the cook fire as Varric recounted tales from his adventures and stories that never made it to the pages of his books. Samson kept mostly to himself during this time, watching as the Inquisition shared in laughter and smiles all around. He knew once they returned to Skyhold he’d be stripped back down to the role of prisoner once more.

            On one such night, Hadiza found him. She had to; she always found him somehow.

            He was leaning against a tree, overlooking the valley, and when she came to join him, he gave her a lopsided smirk.

            “Princess,” he greeted, reveling in her delighted smile at his name for her, “how’re you holding up?”

            Hadiza shrugged.

            “I’m holding. Just eager to get home, I guess.” She stood next to him, idly picking at a strap on one of her vambraces, “What of you? That display at the Temple could not have been easy.”

            “It wasn’t.” Samson agreed, “Felt like I was going to catch fire and burn away. It was worth it, though.” He reached beside him, poking her side idly.

            “I’m glad Ghost got to you, then,” Hadiza laughed, “had you not been there we all might have perished.” Samson’s expression was puzzled, but then he made the connection.

            “Ghost? Ah, the silver-eyed wench with too many fuckin’ knives on her? Yeah, she got to me. Girl is wicked with a bow and arrow. I didn’t think she’d make that shot from so far away.” At that, Hadiza grinned.

            “Yes, well, I wasn’t expecting that shot either. Glad she took it.” Hadiza looked away from him, her cheeks warm. Samson said nothing, but he could feel the shift in mood when it came. Hadiza turned to him, her expression guileless.

            “Thank you,” she said, “Samson I…when we captured you I didn’t know what I’d do to help you. I just knew I didn’t want you rotting in some hole beneath Skyhold. I knew you were a good man once, and that you’d always…done right by people like me. And then you accepted my offer to become my…”

            “Champion?” Samson offered with a grin. Hadiza gave a shy smile, resisting the urge to cover her face because it was burning so badly. She laughed.

            “Yes,” she said in agreement, “my champion, my guardian, and more recently, my protector. I expected something out of you, Samson. Something good. What I got was…more than that. I guess what I’m trying to say is—“ Samson put a finger to her lips. If she said it, then it would break him. There’d be no going back. He’d already come to terms with his feelings for her, but if she said it he wouldn’t know what to do.

            “I thought we agreed to finish this conversation at Skyhold.” He told her. Hadiza smiled, slow and tantalizing and Samson swallowed hard. Then, she kissed his fingertip and wiped away any sentient thought he might have formed.

            “Maker!” He snatched his hand away, wondering why such a tender gesture had made him so painfully hard. Hadiza laughed.

            “We did agree.” She told him, “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t already make a decision.” Samson froze, staring at her.

            “Shit.” Was all he could get out and Hadiza laughed again and this time Samson couldn’t control the way it made him feel. She’d made a decision, but what decision had she made? Did she feel the same for him as he did for her? Hadiza poked him playfully.

            “So we’ll wait, then.” She whispered, and before Samson could collect his thoughts she was walking back toward camp, her hips swaying. Samson wanted to laugh. The damnable minx knew what she was about!

            He took a deep breath, and exhaled for what felt like the first time in ages.

            When they came upon Skyhold, the shouts from the battlements were passed along, and their arrival was heralded by celebration. Word had already reached the keep that Corypheus had been defeated and the Breach sealed. Now, they celebrated the Inquisitor’s safe return. It was nightfall already, and the stars were just beginning to dot the fabric of the sky, interrupted in the distance by the sickly green scar to the south. The portcullis was raised and as Hadiza and her party passed beneath it, everything changed.

            They were home.

            She made her way to the steps, climbing gingerly, and realized she was alone, with her Inner Circle gathered amidst the growing crowd. Hadiza’s brows furrowed and then she turned, hesitant, and found her three advisors waiting for her. There was a moment where she thought that perhaps they had some more dire news for her, but Leliana was wearing a very smug smile, and Josephine looked positively delighted. Even Cullen looked a little proud of her. Hadiza stood alone, existing at once as the Inquisitor and the lone mage whose entire stake in this had been happenstance.

            Then, slowly, and with a reverence one reserved for royalty or the Divine herself, her three advisors bowed to her, low and respectful. It was a sign of respect, and an affirmation that Hadiza was beyond a shadow of a doubt, the leader of the Inquisition. She inclined her head at them, echoing their smiles of pride. Then, as one, they went into the keep, with the crowd following behind. Hadiza glanced over her shoulder once, searching and hoping. When she didn’t see Samson she sighed, wondering if they’d have time to pick up the tail end of that conversation they’d wanted to have.

            Until then, she was the Inquisitor.

 

* * *

 

            The fête was extravagant, and Josephine had spared precious little expense on the affair. Nobles both from Orlais and Ferelden were in attendance, all vying for Hadiza’s attention and time. Her comrades of the Inner Circle were all scattered about, making small talk, or in Varric’s case, charming their guests. Hadiza was clad in a dress of soft, icy blue, with off-shoulder sleeves decorated with blue jay feathers. The bodice was heart shaped, emphasizing her bust and the tautness of her waist, and the skirt hugged her hips before fishtailing into a modest train. With Vivienne’s help, Hadiza had managed to style her hair in a high and artfully messy coif, decorated with honeysuckle vines, the blooms dyed blue to match her dress. A necklace of silverite inlaid with sapphires adorned her throat.

            Hadiza was in essence, the belle of the ball.

            Still, it did nothing to ease her anxiousness to be done with this entire affair.

            After speaking to a particularly eager but minor Orlesian lordling—a Jacmel de Valois—Hadiza decided to seek refuge with Iron Bull, Aja, and Blackwall. Her sister cleaned up fairly well, but had stuck to her style of trousers rather than dresses. She wore all black, with a lace bodice, but instead of a dress, the bottom half of her ensemble was a pair of wide-leg trousers made of a flowing material that emphasized her muscled legs and her height. Blackwall had mentioned that he found the strange outfit exciting, and quintessentially Aja. Bull had not bothered to dress up for the affair, nor had Blackwall.

            “Enjoying yourself, boss?” He asked with a glint in his eye. Hadiza smirked, and hid her response in a pull from her goblet of wine. Bull leaned in, still smiling.

            “He won’t show up, you know,” Bull murmured and Hadiza nearly choked, “but I may or may not have told him to linger by the door to your quarters…so you two could talk.”

            “Bull!” Hadiza hissed, “You didn’t!”

            “Boss,” Bull said seriously, “everyone knows you two are making moon-eyes at each other. Don’t have to be Ben-Hasserath to see that. And everyone knows you gave him a chance when everyone else wanted his head on a pike. Hell, even _I_ wanted his head on a pike. But you pulled a re-educator move on him, boss, I’m impressed. You took a broken man and you got him on the path to being whole again.”

            Hadiza hesitated, the rim of her goblet hovering near her wine-reddened lips. She thought about it, wondered if everything she’d done for and with the Inquisition had been leading up to this.

            “I…Bull, thank you, I’m going to…” She tried to find the words.

            “Don’t thank me just yet, boss,” he laughed, “I’m wondering where the hell you two are even going with this.” Hadiza narrowed her eyes.

            “There’s a pool going, isn’t there?” She asked flatly. At Bull’s smile she rolled her eyes, downed the remainder of her wine, and excused herself from the table.

            “Rooting for you, boss.” Bull laughed Hadiza made a hissing noise with her teeth at him.

            Making her way through the milling crowd, she spotted him. In truth, he was hard to miss; he was the only one not dressed in finery, and instead wore his drab prisoner’s garb, looking like a wolf that was trapped indoors. When he saw her, he smiled.

            “I didn’t think you’d come,” Hadiza said softly, and Samson shrugged, “I was worried I’d have to come fetch you.”

            “Templars don’t usually attend parties,” Samson grunted, “just look at the Commander, all fuckin’ pink and stammering like some nervous farm boy with his first lover.” Hadiza clapped her hand over her mouth to keep from bursting into peals of laughter.

            “You shouldn’t tease him,” she admonished, but her laughter said otherwise, “he’s improved a great deal since Halamshiral. This is quite tame for him.” Samson looked skeptical, but he accepted it with a grunt of assent. Hadiza’s hand went for the door handle, pushing the door open.

            “Let’s get out of here.” She told him. Samson blinked.

            “You sure…? It’s your party…” He gestured to the busy crowd. Hadiza chuckled.

            “Exactly,” she agreed, “and if I want to leave early, then I shall. You and I have unfinished business.”

            With that, Samson could not disagree, and he followed her, the door shutting behind them.

 

* * *

 

            Hadiza’s room was bathed in moonlight and starlight when they reached it and Samson felt at once out of place and thrilled to be there. The last time he’d been in her bedchamber, Cullen had tried to kill him. But now, he’d been _invited_.

            “So,” Hadiza turned in a slow circle around the room and Samson took that moment to note how lovely she looked n her dress, “I came to a decision about you, Samson. Two, actually.”

            “Did you, now, princess?” He retorted as she walked toward him. Hadiza smirked.

            “Oh yes,” she murmured, “would you like to hear them?”

            “I’m waiting with baited fuckin’ breath.”

            Hadiza tilted her head, and her expression turned serious.

            “I decided that after one year has passed since I judged you, that I will commute your sentence to community service. You will be bound to the Inquisition for this time, and you will aid in the reconstruction of Ferelden and Orlais that the red templars wrought. As for how long this process will take, it remains to be seen. Until a year has passed, however, you are still technically my prisoner which brings me to my next decision.”

            Samson suddenly felt his stomach go into free fall. Hadiza smiled sadly.

            “If we…” She bit her lip, “If we decide to take this beyond what we have now, it will affect my reputation. They will say I was corrupted, and that you sought to bring down the Inquisition from within. While you are still officially my prisoner, we can’t be…public with our affections, if there are to be any. That is…if that’s what you wanted with me.”

            Samson understood. Politically and socially, Hadiza couldn’t be seen canoodling with him, no matter how little he gave a fuck about what people said. But he understood how this shit worked. She was in a position in which politicking was essential. But he wanted her more than anything, now. He needed her. He recalled their first kiss, how it burned like a brand on his soul, and how soft her lips had been. He wanted to drink down her laughter in the mornings, to know what it was like to hold her in his arms in the night’s depths, and to listen to the cadence of her breathing as she slept.

            “I’ve always wanted you, princess,” he rasped, “you know that. I wouldn’t have come up here otherwise.” Hadiza bit her lip again, looking away shyly. Samson wouldn’t have it, and so he took her chin in his fingers and turned her head to look at him.

            “If you’re sure, I don’t mind being your secret…a year isn’t as long as you think.” Then, with a boldness he’d wanted to act upon, he traced the shape of her lips with the calloused pad of his thumb. Watching her lips part was…he felt the blood rush to his groin in response.

            “I’m sure,” she whispered, and there was an _ache_ in her voice, “I’m sure. I’m sure.”

            Without warning, Samson took her arm, pulling her toward him. Her body, silk-clad as it was, collided with his and he embraced her, tightly, lowering his head to hers to kiss her. She kissed him back, yielding to the demand of his insistent tongue, her lips parted for him, and he licked into her mouth, relishing the taste of wine within. She groaned softly, and Samson nearly lost it. The silence of her bedchamber was overlain with their sharp breaths, heavy panting, and the sound of her dress whispering with each movement she made. Samson was adept at unlacing a lady’s dress, and he quickly worked at the stays while she pushed his shirt up and over his head, marveling at the hot skin beneath.

            Samson loosed the stays of Hadiza’s gown and peeled it away, marveling that this was actually happening. How many fantasies of her had he entertained in his mind? How many ways had he dreamt of taking her? And how many times did he quell those desires with the realization that she would never want him the way he wanted her? Samson watched as the dress whispered down her body, revealing all of her skin, rich and dark and unblemished. Samson wanted to just…caress her all over. And that’s exactly what he did, tugging her breast band in the process to free her breasts, making Hadiza gasp in surprise as the lush weight of them bounced free.

            “Maker’s fucking balls, princess,” Samson growled, “you’re gorgeous.” Hadiza did not know why, but coming from him that made her blush and she turned her gaze from his.

            “Thank you,” she whispered and Samson laughed.

            “I can go slower if you like,” he offered, stroking and massaging her sides gently, “or I could fuck you blind right now. Your pick, princess.” Hadiza swallowed. Samson had guessed right: she was a woman who loved a hard fuck, and he was good at that. He could bring her to a violent, screaming climax if he wanted. All he needed was time to familiarize himself with the sinuous curves and lines that shaped her. His hands traveled up to cup her breasts, rolling the nipples under his thumbs. He watched her with a wolf’s intensity as her eyes shut and she moaned softly, arching into his hands.

            “Decide, princess…” He murmured, lowering his head to kiss her exposed throat tenderly, leaving a trail of fire along the arch, lips settling on her fluttering pulse until all he could smell was that powdery perfume she was wearing, and the honeysuckle in her hair.

            “Samson…” She whispered and for some reason that undid him. He wanted her right there on the fucking floor, wanted to spread her wide for him, to feel just what sort of wet heat she hide from him. Instead, he tried to tap that templar patience, gritting his teeth as he licked along her feverish skin, one hand spanning the flat of her stomach to venture beneath the band of her smalls. Her gasp echoed his growl as his fingers found the sopping wet folds easily, sliding between them to find her clit. He removed his hand; fingertips wet from her, and then guided her carefully towards her bed, urging her to sit while he knelt. Hooking his fingers in the band, he dragged her smalls down the length of her legs, tossing them away.

            “I’ve been thinking about this moment for months,” he told her, smoothing his hands up her calves, kneading them gently and grinning at her squeal of delight.

            “Really?” She asked him, “I never would have gues—oh!” He interrupted her teasing, when he tickled the backs of her knees sending her into uncontrollable giggling, trying to say his name.

            “Yes, princess, _really_.” He told her as she fell backward, kicking her legs into the air. Andraste’s dimpled ass cheek, she was too beautiful for words, so he decided he’d talk to her in other ways. He joined her in bed, easily draping her legs over his shoulders. He wanted to savor her, inch by delicious inch, wanted to taste all the sounds she made. He’d joked with the horsemaster about how Hadiza could make a poet out of him, and now he was eating his words. The woman had the moon in her eyes and stars coming out of her mouth every time she laughed, and her smile was the most endearing thing about her.

            No, not the most. He knew he’d never be able to decide for as long as he had her.

            He pulled her legs apart, holding onto one to kiss along the length of her calf, down to her ankle, and along the smooth arch of her foot. She giggled again when he kissed her toes, scrunching her nose just so. Fuckin’ cute is what she was, but he knew he could get her smoldering. They had all night to stoke the fire, and so he took his time, despite how hard he was and how much he wanted to just ravish her until she was breathless and hoarse from screaming his name. He lowered her leg to the bed, leaving her spread before him. Hadiza wriggled her hips, half expectant, half adjusting, and he reached down to slide one finger along her hot slit.

            She gasped and he watched her pupils swallow the silver of her eyes, grinning. She was very responsive, and he thought of all the ways he could use that to wring her limp with pleasure. He swiped again, but this time kept going in an up and down rhythm and pattern, circling her clit each time he came up, until she was slick enough to cover his fingers and her sex parted easily around his touch. She moved her hips eagerly, wanting more pressure, wanting more stimulation, biting her lip against a moan when Samson rubbed one of her sensitive folds between his fingers until she had no choice but to let it out.

            “Don’t get too loud, princess,” he teased her, and smiled when she sucked in a sharp breath as one of his fingers vanished into her, “wouldn’t want your secret getting out.” In truth, Samson rather enjoyed the prospect of being the Inquisitor’s secret lover. He wanted them—the ubiquitous ‘them’—to wonder who so thoroughly fucked Hadiza’s brains out. He wanted them to wonder who put the smile on her face, who got to kiss the skin every night. As a second finger joined the first, he reveled in the wet, erotic sound of them pumping in and out of her, grinding the heel of his palm on her clit just so.

            Hadiza wailed, fisting the luxurious duvet in a white-knuckled grip as her hips moved against his hand. Samson knew he could make her come from this alone, but he didn’t want her to just yet. He just wanted her so wet that she could spill all over him. He wanted her as easy as a sunrise.

            When he felt the first fluttering of her lust-slick walls, he withdrew his hand, laughing when she whimpered.

            “Why did you stop?” She demanded, eyes glittering, the moonlight limning her skin in silver. Samson looked her over, said nothing, and unlaced his trousers. Hadiza licked her lips, her heart racing, and before she could control her impulse, she moved, quick and languid.

            “Hey!” Samson cried, but he laughed when she wrapped her long legs around him, locking her ankles at the base of his spine, and then she tugged him, her stomach muscles flexing as Samson grinned hard, wolf-like and amused.

            “Patience, princess.” He ordered and Hadiza frowned; she didn’t want patience, she wanted _him_. She tugged harder and Samson, in his humor, reached forward to grab her by the waist and lift her, effortless and beautiful, carrying her as he cupped the rotund curves of her ass, squeezing as she wrapped her arms around him, dipping her head to kiss him.

            “No.” She whispered into his open mouth, and he chuckled darkly.

            “Have it your way, princess,” he whispered back, walking to press her bare skin against the cold stone wall. Hadiza kissed him fervently, interspersed with her laughter as he reached between them, freeing his cock. He lowered her just enough for the head to brush against her entrance, making her gasp softly.

            “Look at you,” he teased in that growling voice, “getting all soft in the middle and we haven’t even started yet.” He received a nip to his lower lip in retaliation, and so he dropped her the rest of the way onto his waiting shaft.

            Hadiza sucked in a breath, then let out a deep-throated groan, her head falling back against the wall. Samson gritted his teeth against the feel of her. She was hot, wet velvet around him, just tight enough that he could feel he was stretching her, but Maker she could take him deep if he wanted to go. He squeezed her ass, making her grind against him, eliciting another groan from her parted lips. For a moment, Samson simply held her there, and she lifted her head, drawing herself closer to him, burying it in the crook of his neck. Samson realized she was trembling. It wasn’t any matter, because if he moved now he felt he’d spend, so he simply sat inside of her, marveling at the feel of her.

            “Maker’s shitting breath…” He whispered reverently, and then dropped a kiss to her shoulder, then her neck, and that tender spot behind her ear. He wouldn’t last like this. He began to move. Hadiza whimpered, holding onto him tighter and he felt her— _Maker’s balls_ —he felt her getting wetter as his hips drew back, his cock slick with her, and then back in. He kept it slow, and he felt the sharp bite of her nails in his shoulders, heard a muffled sound that might have been his name. He planted one hand against the wall, and rocked his hips into her, his thrusts getting steadily harder, faster, and deeper, and eventually settling into a rhythm that took her from whimper, to moan, and finally to short, staccato gasps with each clash of his hips against hers.

            Samson didn’t think it was possible to give up a woman like this. He didn’t think—he couldn’t think—of any reason a man would give all this up; Hadiza, with her infectious laughter and her soft heart, and her tight, delicious cunt. He was over the fucking moon for her, he knew, but it wasn’t until he took a fireball on her behalf that he knew he loved her. And this…this was what _bliss_ must have been like. The Maker be damned, he would take this over any paradise the Chantry preached about any day. This was real to him. He could hold onto all of this flesh and blood writhing in his arms, could kiss the miles of skin on her and know how she’d respond. He wanted to make love to her, wanted to fuck her, wanted to make her laugh, and was mad with all the possibilities to please her.

            He moved for her and she moved for him, and eventually his rhythm became urgent and needful. Her lips tried to form words, but her head fell back against the wall again, and she simply wailed for him, heavy breasts heaving and bouncing with each force of his thrusts. It wasn’t the Maker she called out to that night, but she called out to him, clinging to him like a lifeline. Samson was content to make her unravel around his cock, and he stroked into her harder, sending her thoughts scrambling in every direction.

            “Please…” She begged, nails carving sigils into his back as he hissed, “…please, please, _please_ …!” And Samson obliged her, leaning in close to lick at her neck, dappling it with sloppy, wet kisses. And then in a low, and surprisingly calm voice, telling her to come for him.

            She did, and Maker, it was the _end_ of him.

            Her walls clenched hard around him, her body shuddering from the base of her spine to the nape of her neck, as her cries rose in pitch until she broke, and Samson could not longer maintain that self-control. He **fucked** her. He fucked her until her orgasm subsided and his crested, and then he spent himself within her depths with a hoarse growl, sinking his teeth into the tender flesh between her neck and shoulder as he did, marking her.

            The world was a blur around them, covered in a dream-like haze, and Hadiza saw without truly seeing, her eyes glassy, her lips parted, and her skin slick with sweat. Samson breathed deep, filling his lungs with the scent of their sex, a commingling of sweat and seed, and expensive perfume. He saw the bruising mark of his bite, and soothed it with a kiss and a swipe of his tongue, grinning when Hadiza hissed and shivered from the contact.

            Eventually, he carried her back to bed when he remembered how to use his legs. Somehow, in the cool night air, they wound up beneath the covers, laughing in the darkness. It was the laughter of relief, both that they were alive and that this was the start of something new for both of them.

            “Do you think they heard us?” Hadiza asked as she settled into Samson’s arms. The man laughed, one arm encircling her torso, his hand cupping her breast and idly kneading the nipple between his fingers, making her whimper.

            “They heard _you_ , princess,” he said to her, his fingers never letting up until Hadiza pushed her bottom back against his groin suggestively. He gave it a light slap.

            “Not yet,” he admonished, “give a man a moment’s peace, woman.”

            Hadiza huffed, turning in his arms to face him. The moonlight had shifted in the bedchamber, from one of her windows to the other, but there was still enough for her to make out his features, which she traced tenderly with her fingertips. Samson was still beneath her touch, allowing her to trace his brow bone, then his cheekbone, her fingernails scraping lightly at his stubble, and then settling to trace his mouth. Unable to resist, he gave the lightest kisses to her curious fingertips.

            They said nothing for the rest of the night. Samson preferred it that way. They did far better talking without words, and the dawn was just beginning to color the horizon by the time they finished their conversation, the sheets damp with sweat, and Hadiza left with quivering limbs, and a love-swollen mouth. Samson settled at her side, and surprised himself when Hadiza nuzzled close. His arm went around her and he listened to her breathing grow deeper as she slept, and he stared at the ceiling, wondering and hoping.

            She fit him. There was nothing else for it. She fucking fit.

            He smiled, the mantra ringing in his head: _she fits, she fits, she fits_. He shut his eyes, and for the first time in years, fell into a peaceful slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene in which Samson receives his modified armor and sun-shield from Hadiza via Ariadne was inspired by [this scene](http://janearts.tumblr.com/post/112588458506/how-would-cullen-react-when-he-found-out-bree-and) by janearts on Tumblr. I promised her I'd throw that scene in here when the time was right and credit her for the inspiration. I didn't want to put it at the beginning and give it away. So here we are. I hope you guys enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks for rocking with me on this one, because I don't think the SS Sadiza is going anywhere anytime soon. On to the next adventure, eh? :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tressed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127248) by [theprettynerdie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprettynerdie/pseuds/theprettynerdie)
  * [It Will Come Back](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948870) by [osunism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism)




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